


Scales

by WritingForTheRevolution



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Folklore, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Mermaids, Mild Blood, Paraphrased Letters, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 44,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23286667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingForTheRevolution/pseuds/WritingForTheRevolution
Summary: Mermaids. Beautiful, feminine, and only supposed to exist in folklore.Or so Alexander thought.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 71
Kudos: 173





	1. Part 1

Alex walked along the beach, digging his toes into the water-soaked sand as he contemplated the unusual weather. It had been raining non-stop for at least a week, and by the look of the sky, the weather wasn’t going to improve at all in the days to come.

The wind had picked up just after the sun had slipped below the horizon, whipping sand into the air and bending the trees backward over the ocean. Leaves were torn from various plants and flung violently into the water, doors slammed open and shut on their hinges, and windows rattled in their frames even after they had been boarded up with thin sheets of plywood. The storm had stopped after an hour or so, and Alex had decided to take a walk along the beach. He liked the feel of the air after it had rained, and besides, no one at home would miss him anyway.

Now that he was outside, though, he realized that the world didn’t want to calm down. It threw a fit with the wind and cried angry tears of rain, and the waves crashed up onto the shore as if thrown by a furious hand. The sky had turned all sorts of unusual colors, as if it couldn’t decide on the angriest, most desolate one. First it had been tinted a dusty gray, then a sickly green shade splattered between the clouds, and now a dull, foreboding yellow spilled out to fill the expansive canvas.

Yellow.

The entire sky was yellow.

Alex gazed at the sky, transfixed, as his eyes followed the tumultuous, swirling clouds that picked up some of the overflowing yellow and blotted out the silvery light of the moon. The last thing he saw as he stared out at the horizon was a wall of black water that crashed over him in a heartbeat and enveloped him in frigid, numbing darkness.

He swallowed several mouthfuls of water before he realized that he wasn’t breathing in air, and he struggled to hold his breath while fighting the tickling cough at the back of his throat. It felt as if every breath of air had been stolen from his lungs, sucked out and released into the churning water to give it power and a life of its own. His legs were paralyzed, fused into a stiff board that he couldn’t move no matter how desperately he focused, and although his movement was stilled, the nerves weren’t dulled. Sharp pains flared from his hips and spread down his legs as if he had gotten stabbed and the sensation had been multiplied by twenty. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move.

 _This is it,_ he realized through the anguished fog in his brain. _This is how I’m going to die._

Alex had thought that being underwater was supposed to be calm and quiet, but obviously, he had been wrong. In the middle of a storm, it was disorienting and suffocating, squeezing every ounce of breath from his lungs until golden spots danced before his eyes.

And as suddenly as it had come, the pain subsided, leaving only a dull ache behind. Alex could breathe. He could see. He glanced around dazedly in the dark, murky water as he tried to relax. His breathing was shallow, he was still disoriented from the agony that had so unexpectedly assaulted his lower body, and his mouth felt weird, but he attributed that last one to being hit by something in the water. He could make out mangled pieces of wood and metal amongst torn palm leaves and… _other_ shapes he didn’t want to dwell upon for very long. Sand swirled in front of his eyes, and something sparkled dimly a few feet below him.

It was most likely a shard of broken glass, or some old piece of jewelry that had been washed out of someone’s home by the waves. He twisted down anyway, trying to move closer to see what it was, but the thing just moved farther out of his reach. He stilled his movements—not that anything he did made much of a difference in the incessantly churning waves—and tried to figure out what he was seeing. A dull gleam of bottle green that grew lighter and led into a flowy, goldfish-like tail. He traced his eyes around the curved outline of it, trying to find the body of the fish it had come from.

But it was attached to him.

_I’m not a fish._

He had a tail. An honest-to-god tail.

This had to be a dream, or some weird figment of his imagination in the split seconds between life and death. He couldn’t have a tail; he would have known. Mermaids weren’t real. They were just some beautiful, feminine, fictional creature made up in ancient folklore.

_Right?_

The next thing he knew, he was lying on his side in the wet sand, spitting too-salty water from his mouth. Somehow, he had washed up onto the beach, enveloped in the receding, foamy waves. He wondered for a moment what would happen to his tail now that he was on dry land. Would it shrivel up? Would he die? Would he wake up in the small, makeshift shack he called home and remember all of this as some weird, lucid dream?

The last of the waves trickled back down the shore, leaving him with nothing but the gritty sand and storm debris for company. His tail stretched out in front of him, a brilliant green that melted into a murky brown the closer it came to his body.

He’d been underwater more times than he could count, so why the hell hadn’t he gotten this tail before now? It had to be a dream. The moment he touched it, he wouldn’t be able to feel anything, and then he would wake up.

Alex reached out to run his fingers hesitantly along the tail that had replaced his legs. The scales were smooth and delicate, rounded off at the edges and layered perfectly down to the flowing fins at the end. They seemed thin, and Alex wondered how easy it would be to tear them off if he tried, if tearing them off would cut his skin when the tail transformed back into legs. Or if it would even transform back at all.

After a single moment of complete, silent calm, the same agonizing sensation from before shattered through every other thought that crossed his mind.

This time, Alex passed out.

. . .

Alex awoke in the dim light of dawn, still lying on the damp sand, but with human legs instead of a tail. His lower body was bare, clothes probably torn off when he was thrown into the water, and his severely shredded shirt barely covered his aching chest. Alex tried to stand, immediately collapsing back onto the sand as his legs buckled under his full weight. The pain was still there, he realized after a moment, stiffening the muscles and making it impossible to move. His vision went white for a second as he inhaled deeply and dug his fingers into the sand, trying to focus on the sensation of the rough grains rubbing against his skin rather than the agonizing pain.

His second attempt at standing was more successful; he managed to stretch far enough to reach a broken piece of wood lying a few feet away, and used it as a crutch to push himself up. He staggered up the beach toward the now-destroyed town, limping with every step.

As he stumbled through the wreckage, Alex heard the cries of people in pain, and tried to block out the flurried mix of Creole English and French as they shouted for their mothers, their sisters, their children, their friends. He saw the destroyed remnants of buildings, once-sturdy structures reduced to piles of splintered wood and twisted metal, and he glanced quickly over the multitude of dead bodies before tearing his gaze away. It felt disrespectful to look at the broken figures of souls who had died so quickly with so little warning.

The small building that had once been his cousin’s home was mostly destroyed, leaving only the foundation and parts of the walls standing. Alex collapsed onto the ground, dropping his makeshift walking stick and curling in on himself. He couldn’t dwell on his physical pain any longer; his legs were shaking so much he could hardly move, and his head was pounding, most likely from dehydration and being tossed around in the waves. He didn’t want to think about the hundreds, maybe even thousands of people who were suffering something terribly worse than he was.

So Alex did what he did best. He scrounged for a dry piece of paper and something to write with, and he wrote.

_Honoured Sir, St. Croix, Sept. 6_

_I write this letter to give you an imperfect account of one of the most dreadful storms that memory or any records can remember, which happened here on the night of the 31st of August._

_It began at sunset, a violent, unforgiving storm that continued until ten o’clock. It stopped for about an hour, and the wind shifted quite suddenly, returning doubly as violent as before for about four hours. God, what horror and destruction it brought upon this island! It is nearly impossible to describe the horrors I witnessed in those hours; it is as if nature has ended its reign upon the world and allowed chaos to take its place. The sea battered the shores, the wind tore everything away, the lightning sent fright down the spines of every person who watched; all of it sufficient to strike astonishment into Angels. And that does not even begin to describe the torment that my fellow citizens have experienced. Houses have been levelled to the ground, families have been torn apart, and the sick are exposed to the whims of nature without so much as food or shelter. Countless others have died; the sea is still washing bodies up onto the shore as the water laps at the destroyed beach. Our water is undrinkable, tasting strongly of salt and gunpowder._

_How have any of these people offended the heavens enough for them to cast this atrocity upon us? I trusted in God’s unlimited power and his ability to provide and heal. Each of these people has trusted, has obeyed, and has given himself to God and still they suffer terribly because of the horrors He decided to cast upon us. Death has come for these people, dark and unrelenting as he swipes at them with his pointed scythe. This disaster has brought him forth, wielding famine, disease, and distresses of the most terrible nature as his weapons, and we cannot call upon God to save us. He may have stopped the tormenting winds and crashing waves, but He will not aid us any more than that._

_Now, good Sir, are you not capable of feeling sympathy for your fellow human beings? Those who are just like you, but were dropped in a forgotten spot and forced to deal in these terrible circumstances with no help offered to them? Look around at the world and take in the pain, the hurt, and the suffering of others. See the small children who clutch their mothers’ skirts and beg for food that is not there, watch the mothers cry as they realize they have nothing to give. I cannot help them, as I am in the same position, if not slightly better. But you who revel in wealth and plenty, I beg you; take pity on these people, bestow your abundance upon them if only to ease their pain. Do not withhold simply because you have also suffered; what are your sufferings compared to these? You will still have more than enough in your possession, and your gratuitous offerings will not be forgotten when it is your time at the gates of heaven._

_I am afraid, Sir, that you may think this description more the product of my imagination than a tale of reality, but I assure you that my words are nothing but truthful, and my descriptions are sincere of all that I have borne witness to. I wish that I could have been one of the many whose life was so forcefully taken from his hands during the terrible storm so I would not have had to bear witness to the grievous aftermath, but I couldn’t seem to die._

Alex dropped the pen onto the sand-encrusted floor and stared at the scribbled words covering the paper. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve to be alive. He was the son of a whore, born out of wedlock and raised by a single mother who worked so damn hard to provide for them, and Alex hadn’t appreciated her while she was alive. When they had gotten sick, he was the one who had lived to see the light of another day. He had been a burden on his mother, then his brother, then his cousin, and yet he was still alive despite everything that told him he should have died.

Alex read over his messy scrawl one last time, trembling at the pain that lingered in his legs and brushing away the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes as he scribbled out the last line with a dark smear of ink. He didn’t matter. He wasn’t the only one who had suffered, and he certainly wasn’t the one who had lost the most. He was alive, even though he didn't want to be, but he couldn’t seem to die. He had his life, unlike so many others, and that was enough.

_It’s not fucking fair._

. . .

Two months later, he was admitted to Columbia University on a full scholarship.

Somehow, his letter had fallen into the hands of a minister. The man, being the part-time editor of some newspaper, had published it for the world to read. Alex could go to America, he could study whatever he wanted, he could get a higher education than he ever could have wished for back on the island. It was a dream come true.

And he didn’t think he deserved any of it.

He had written the letter to his father, technically, but that didn’t matter anymore. The entire world had read it by now. It described the horrors he had seen transpiring around him and the devastating amounts of destruction that came after, all things that seemed like some nightmarish description out of a well-written horror novel. He had written it to speak of the people who were suffering; the sick, the wounded, the dead, and the dying. He had written it to pray, to ask why any of the already poverty-stricken people on the island deserved such a terrible incident. He had written to beg for help, to plead with those richer than himself to help the suffering people in his home. He looked up and suddenly everyone was looking at him and the next thing he knew, he was being offered amazing things.

He hadn’t spoken of himself. He hadn’t made a single sentence in the letter focus on his personal suffering, and he most definitely had not written a single word about his beautifully cursed tail. He wasn’t even sure if it had been real, and he was disinclined to risk the agony from the first time, imagined or not, just to find out. But the world had read his words, had read the letter that had fallen into the wrong person’s hands and been published for all to see, and they had pictured a boy who had managed to survive despite all odds, a boy smart enough to make a name for himself just off his personal merits alone. They had decided he deserved a chance to do something with his life, and had given him the money to make it happen. He couldn’t exactly refuse the impressively generous offer.

So he went to Columbia, kept his head down and his grades up, and avoided large bodies of water at all costs. He didn’t use the pool in the campus sports complex when Herc dragged him there in an attempt to get him in shape. When one of the fraternity parties he attended during his sophomore year ended up having a huge pool in the yard, he stayed far away and rejected some random, well-intentioned junior who offered to lend him a pair of swim trunks.

“It’s fine,” the boy said, a sympathetic smile already making its way across his face. “Can you not swim?”

Alex laughed. “Oh no, I can swim really well actually.” The boy raised an eyebrow, obviously searching for more of an explanation. “I grew up around water. I just don’t like it very much.”

Countless other times, he had been asked if it was a body confidence issue, and he hesitated before he said yes because, technically, it was.

It wasn’t a complete lie, after all.

Everyone who had gotten that answer had immediately reassured him. They even flirted on occasion. They told him he was beautiful, cute, handsome; he’d probably heard every synonym in the book by now, with several repetitions. They told him that he had a nice body, that he shouldn’t be afraid to show off, that he could get with whomever he wanted and they would love him for all the flaws he thought he had. Alex brushed all of it off with a practiced laugh and a smile that showed just enough of his teeth to be genuine. He didn’t trust anyone enough to actually tell them the truth.

And then he met John Laurens. Wide, cheerful eyes; curly brown hair; and _god_ , so many freckles. His smile made the entire room light up, amazingly bright no matter who he was looking at. Alex wished it could always be directed at him.

They were roommates freshman year, and then they started dating at some point during sophomore year, after many months of obliviousness and dancing around the subject. It all kind of flowed together as one glowing memory, one of the first good things that had happened to him since the hurricane.

They moved in together after they graduated, with Alex moving on to law school and John working in biology research. Three years with John turned into six, and then Alex was working at one of the top law firms in the city.

And John was still there. He hadn’t left when Alex had broken down during a particularly bad storm; he had comforted him and listened to him explain between gasped breaths and hiccups. He listened when Alex shared things about his childhood, and didn’t push him to share more than he wanted. He cared so much that, at first, Alex believed it was too good to be true.

But he had never trusted anyone more in his life.

. . .

Alex stared at the slowly rising line of water in the bathtub, creeping slowly up the sides as it bubbled and foamed near the covered drain.

 _I’m actually going to do this,_ he realized. He twisted the metal handle of the faucet; the steady stream of water trickled to a stop, and he walked out of the bathroom. _I’m going to tell him, and everything is going to be fine._

Alex paused at the end of the hallway, at the point where he could see fully into the kitchen. “Hey John?”

John didn’t look up from his book. “Hmm?”

Alex fidgeted with his shirt. “Can you c’mere for a sec?”

John grinned at him, the wonderful, sunshine-personified grin that Alex had fallen in love with the first time they met. “Yeah, of course.”

Alex watched John tuck a scrap of paper into his book and drop it onto the table before pushing himself up off the couch. He bit his lip and inhaled slowly, trying to calm his racing heart as he walked back toward the bathroom.

 _This is fine,_ he told himself, counting each step he took across the floor. _You have no reason to be afraid. This is John. He’s not going to judge you._

Alex turned around and exhaled, dragging his gaze up from where he had been focusing on the white tiles.

“I want to show you something,” he said slowly, focusing on the sporadic lines of ink across John’s hand. “You’re the only one who will know, and I, uh…”

Alex bit his lip harder. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and he winced. “I trust you a lot, so try not to freak out.”

His fingers caught the hem of his shirt, and he wondered why his hands were shaking. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t stripped in front of John before; they’d been roommates in college and they’d been dating for six years. But as he pulled his shirt over his head and exposed his chest to the chilly air of the apartment, he felt like this was different. He was stripping himself bare, giving this secret to John, a secret he had kept to himself for so many years, and he wasn’t entirely sure what kind of reaction he would receive.

He paused, twisting back to face John. “It’s going to look kind of horrible, but, um… ignore that, all right?”

Before John could reply, Alex stepped into the clear water, lowered himself to the bottom of the tub, and submerged his legs.

It took a second too long for the pain to come, and he thought for a moment that maybe he had imagined it all, back on the island; that he had been halfway between life and death and had seen something that he wasn’t supposed to see. He was about to stand up, working through a dozen semi-reasonable explanations in his head, and then he was screaming.

He felt John’s gentle, panicked hands on his shoulders, his arms, his jaw, his chest, trying to soothe him and failing miserably. Alex couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell John that it was useless for him to try anything because nothing he tried would work.

The sensation was exactly how he remembered. He couldn’t separate his legs, but every nerve was on fire. The breath was sucked from his lungs, but somehow he was screaming. Every thought was driven from his head, but he could still hear John trying to comfort him and wanted more than anything to tell him that everything would be all right in a second.

Once the pain subsided to a dull throbbing throughout his body, and he could do more than just gasp like a fish out of water, Alex opened his eyes. The fluorescent lights of the bathroom reflected off his tail, sending tiny green marks skittering along the sides of the tub, glittering brightly against the walls.

John was staring at him, brown eyes wide and lips parted. “You… you have a tail,” he breathed, reaching out a hand as if he was going to stroke it, but his fingers stalled just before they broke the surface of the water. “You’re a mermaid.” John’s gaze flickered up to Alex’s face, and his eyes widened even more. He leaned back slightly. “And you have teeth. Like, fangs.”

Alex raised a hand to his mouth, pulling it away just as quickly when he felt a sharp pain like a needle being stabbed into the pad of his finger. Tiny droplets of blood welled on the surface of his skin, and he smeared them away with his thumb. “I guess I do.”

John stared at him. “You didn’t know?”

Alex shrugged. “I’ve only ever done this once before, and it wasn’t on purpose.” John tilted his head. “It was during the hurricane.”

John already knew the rest. Alex had told him a little bit about what his life had been like before he had come to the United States; John probably knew more about it than anyone else did at this point. So he knew about the hurricane, how Alex had gotten to Columbia, and how he hated relying on anyone for anything.

“Oh.” John dropped his gaze back to Alex’s tail, the gleam of the scales reflecting in his eyes. “Can I… can I touch it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

John reached his hand out again, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow before he dipped it into the water and extended his fingers. Gentle, muted touches glanced off Alex’s tail, and he shivered, sucking in a shallow breath.

John yanked his hand away, glancing up with wide eyes. Droplets of water slipped from his fingertips and landed in the tub, casting gentle rings across the surface. “Sorry, did that… did I hurt you?”

Alex shook his head, shifting slightly in the water. It slopped over the edges, spreading slowly across the floor. “No, I’m just… I’m not used to having someone touch it, that’s all.”

“Oh.” John stood up and pulled the hand towel off the counter, dropping it over the spilled water before he let his gaze flicker between Alex’s face and his tail. “Are you sure?”

Alex shifted again, trying not to splash more water onto the floor. It would be hell to clean up, and they didn’t have an excessive number of towels. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Okay.” John pushed the towel to the side and knelt in front of the tub again. “What does it feel like?”

“It’s like… I can feel you touching me, but it still doesn’t feel like it’s actually connected to the rest of me, if that makes sense.”

“Like a dream?” John asked, barely looking up as he ran his fingers gently along the scales. Alex could see the colorful gleam reflected in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he replied, staring at John’s awestruck face. “Like a dream, I guess.”

He settled back in the slowly cooling water, watching John reverently stroke his scales. He hadn’t had anyone touch him that kindly before John, and no one had ever touched his tail.

It felt nice.

. . .

Alex didn’t like weekends. He needed to be doing _something_ all the time, and relaxing at home wasn’t his definition of something. John had tried to convince him to relax more, and while spending time with his boyfriend was wonderful, Alex needed to be physically and mentally occupied.

Right now, though, he was scrolling mindlessly through stupid news articles on his phone, bored out of his mind. John had been busy all day—probably drawing something, but Alex wasn’t really sure—and Alex had been left to his own devices. After a particularly harsh lecture about the harmful effects of sleep deprivation from Washington, he had been forbidden from taking cases home to work on, something that Jefferson had laughed about for days afterward, so working wasn’t really an option at the moment.

“Hey, uh… Alex?”

Alex glanced up from his phone. John was standing at the edge of the living room carpet, biting his lip and twisting the hem of his shirt in his hands. “I… I was wondering if… um… ifyouwouldshowmeyourtail?”

Alex stared blankly at his boyfriend for a second, processing the last conglomeration of words that had spilled from John’s mouth. Alex was usually the one who spoke that quickly, with words tripping off his tongue and becoming lost in syllables of one another in his hasty attempts to convey his endless stream of ideas before something amazing could be lost in the winding labyrinth of his brain. But John was always well-spoken and concise, pronouncing every syllable and maintaining an even tone. He only ever sped through his sentences when he was nervous.

John’s eyes widened slightly when Alex didn’t respond, and he swallowed quickly, turning his gaze to the floor. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I mean, it has to be fine, it’s your body, I, um…”

He took a step back, as if some physically reversing movement could retract his question further, and almost tripped over the edge of the rug in the process. “I’m sorry, that crossed a line. I shouldn’t have even asked.” He tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear and bit his lip. “I’ll just…” he gestured vaguely behind him and stepped backward again.

“John, it’s fine.”

John froze, almost in the hallway now, and his eyes flickered up to Alex’s face. “Really?” He touched his hair again, tugging harshly at the same curl he had just tucked behind his ear. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel like you have to or anything just because—”

“John, really, it’s okay.” Alex tossed his phone onto the cushion beside him and pushed himself off the couch, stretching his arms above his head. “I can do it if you want me to.”

John bit his lip again, hard enough that the red tint faded to a pale pink. “It hurts you though,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to go through that again.”

Alex stepped around the table and cupped John’s jaw in his hand, brushing John’s bottom lip from between his teeth before running his thumb across John’s mouth. “It’s okay,” he said, looking evenly into John’s wide, worried eyes. “I can deal with it. I’ll just take some ibuprofen or something.”

John stared at him. “Are you sure?”

Alex smiled. “Yeah. Anything for you. Come on.”

A few weeks later, John asked again, just as anxiously as the first time he’d made the request. He tugged at his ponytail enough that loose strands hung around his face, frizzy and tangled, and his eyes followed Alex’s movements as he walked into the bathroom.

John still tried to soothe him, tried to help him relax through the gritted teeth and tensing of every muscle. He used his voice, his hands, his lips; talking, petting Alex’s hair, kissing him, trying desperately to distract him from the pain. It never worked, but Alex appreciated the thought. It was a far cry from his original fear of being rejected outright as some freak of nature, and he was thankful for that.

. . .

Alex leaned his hip against the counter, bracing his weight as he poured hot water into two mugs. John had requested another transformation that morning, and who was Alex to say no? John was unbelievably caring during the whole process, and his touch was so gentle, grazing his fingertips along Alex’s scales. And now they could have breakfast together. That would be nice.

John paused behind him, pressing a hand against his shoulder, “You okay?”

“Yeah, just a bit sore.” Alex blew at the steam rising from the cups, sending it swirling around before it dissipated into the air. “I’ll be fine.”

“All right.” John pressed his lips against Alex’s cheek, pulling away before Alex could turn to reach out to draw him closer. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

John was leaving? “Oh… okay.”

John threw one last smile over his shoulder before the door shut, and Alex was left alone in the suddenly quiet apartment, two cups of tea abandoned on the counter beside him.

John hadn’t really spent much time with him after the transformation, he realized. He left the tea and wandered back toward the bedroom, pushing his damp hair back from his face and twisting his hair tie around it in a messy ponytail. What had happened to the John who tormented himself about asking Alex to transform because it was painful? Was that John disappearing?

 _No._ Alex shook his head, spraying droplets of water across the floor. John was probably just distracted with whatever he was doing at work, probably some big project he was working on. He had made a little bit of time for Alex, and that’s what mattered. He still cared.

But then it happened again a week later. Another transformation in the morning, and then John was walking out the door half an hour after Alex stepped out of the bath.

Five days later. Twenty minutes, and John was gone.

Two days. Ten minutes.

John’s awkward anxiousness was gone, all of the worrying words and nervous tics replaced by calm, passive queries. Alex always said yes, because he wanted to spend time with John, and they would usually curl up together afterward, cuddling through Alex’s lingering discomfort. It was nice.

The pain would just have to be worth it.

. . .

Lawyers were disorganized, Alex decided. They had no idea how much work he had to do without them coming to him constantly for questions on their joint cases, and they didn’t know how to clear their schedules when he needed them for meetings. He’d already had to reschedule three today. And Jefferson was annoying as hell; he wouldn’t shut up about his trials in their weekly firm meetings, going on about how his were going more quickly than others. At that remark, he had turned to Alex, sneering slightly before looking back to Washington. Arrogant asshole.

Not to mention it had started raining right after he had stepped off the train, and it was already too late when he realized that his umbrella was sitting under his desk at work. And now he was standing in the lobby to his apartment, soaking wet, staring at the tiny black letters cheerfully informing him that the elevators were out of order.

Why did they have to live on the tenth fucking floor, anyway?

After tripping over at least twenty steps and nearly dropping his briefcase twice, Alex finally made it to his floor, unlocking the apartment and stepping inside before pushing the door shut with his heel.

As he toed off his shoes beside the door, John appeared from the bedroom doorway, smiling brightly as he walked down the hall.

“I ran a bath for you,” he murmured, resting his hands on Alex’s hips. “Want to relax and let me see your beautiful tail?”

Alex sighed and laid his hands on top of John’s, pushing them off his body. “We already did that this morning.” He turned sideways, brushing carefully past his boyfriend. “I’m exhausted. I’m just going to go take a nap or something, so—”

John’s hand snapped out in an instant, fingers wrapping tightly around Alex’s wrist and stopping him in his tracks. Alex gasped at the sudden pain that jerked him back, and he twisted around.

John’s eyes were dark; menacing. Threatening. Alex’s heart skipped one beat, two beats. Three beats, and he forgot how to breathe.

And then John’s fingers curled around his hips again. Gently, so gently compared to the iron grip that had choked Alex’s wrist mere seconds ago. He crowded into Alex’s space, pushing carefully against his hips until Alex’s back hit the wall.

John pressed a light kiss to Alex’s lips, sliding one hand up onto Alex’s side while bringing the other to rest on the wall next to his head.

“Please?” he whispered. “Can you please do this?” Another kiss; soft lips brushed Alex’s jaw. “You’re so pretty, Alex.” Another kiss; his pulse point. “So pretty.”

“Okay,” Alex breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

John pulled away after pressing one last kiss to Alex’s neck, one of his sunshine-like smiles flitting across his face. He circled his fingers around Alex’s wrist—Alex tried his hardest not to flinch at the touch—and led him into the bathroom.

Alex didn’t want to deal with any more pain today. He didn’t want to end the day by fighting with John, nor did he want to end it shaking on the floor as his legs rebelled against the rest of his functioning body.

His bare feet touched cold tiles as he pulled off his socks, followed slowly by his fitted suit pants. They pooled around his ankles, and he stepped out of the crumpled fabric. He stared down at his bare legs for a second before he slid his boxers off his hips, and brought his hands up to his shirt collar. When he glanced up, John’s wide eyes were focused on him. “So beautiful,” he murmured, lips parted.

But when John looked at him like that, resigning himself to the pain was almost worth it.

Alex knew, somewhere in his clouded mind, that he wasn’t the object of his boyfriend’s attention. John’s mind was already miles away and moments ahead, and his glassy eyes didn’t focus on Alex’s body. They focused on the mirage image in his head, the one of the glimmering, sparkling scales and fluttering tail that had so thoroughly captured his attention.

So, no; Alex wasn’t hot, or pretty, or beautiful.

He let his unbuttoned shirt slide off his shoulders and onto the floor, and stepped slowly into the clear water rippling in the bathtub. His nails bit into his palms as he clenched his hands into fists, and, after a moment, tiny green dots flickered across the walls.

His tail was.

. . .

After that, John’s requests became increasingly more frequent. One, two, three times a day; Alex wasn’t sure how he hadn’t passed out from the consistent abuse on his body.

John had stopped trying to coax him through the pain. Sure, none of the soothing words or careful touches had worked, but it had been a loving gesture that Alex had looked forward to on the days he transformed. Even if they hadn’t worked to lessen the physical pain, they still distracted him and let him focus on something else.

Alex wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, but the pain seemed to get worse after John stopped comforting him. He definitely felt more drained these days, but when he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see a difference. His eyes might have been a little redder—he leaned in until his nose touched the glass and widened his expression until he vaguely resembled an owl—but he didn’t notice anything else.

He refused to even consider taking a day off work. There were ways to deal with the pain. That’s what medicine was for. He’d started taking ibuprofen consistently every morning, one or two pills after he stepped out of the bath.

His life became an algebra lesson, one where he carefully calculated the number of hours until he could safely take another dose of ibuprofen. He couldn’t remember how many times John had wanted to see his tail before the six hours were up. Those were the nights Alex stayed up late; so, so late, crying silently as he rocked back and forth, rubbing at his legs in a futile attempt to assuage the constant, throbbing pain. A bottle of vibrant, orange pills became his addiction, staring at him mockingly from the open door of the bathroom cabinet every time he stepped into the clear water.

Everything became routine. Day after day of taking medicine in the dark kitchen, swallowing pills with water in the morning while tears pricked at his eyes, pounding headaches that forced his eyes shut as he waited for the pain to pass. Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes he could sit down and it would recede, only to return when he stood up.

An hour after he took medicine, when it was supposed to be effective, he could still feel the pounding in his head, just dulled. He tried migraine medicine, oblong and white, ones he could only take every twenty-four hours. It worked for the headaches, but not the stabbing pain in his hips and legs.

He went back to the orange pills.

Alex was aware that what he was doing was probably stupid and dangerous. The golden label on the bottle informed him in tiny black letters that he shouldn’t take more than 200 milligrams every four to six hours (he was _definitely_ going over that amount), that the pills should be taken with food (he ate regularly enough), and that he should be aware of several severe, but highly unlikely side effects (unless one neglected to follow the instructions on the label).

But when all he could focus on was the stabbing sensation that radiated from his abdomen all the way down to his toes and the pulsing pain that had somehow migrated to his head, Alex didn’t think twice.

. . .

Alex walked distractedly down the hallway, flipping through the folders in his hands. Three for Burr, one for Knox, a few of his own that needed to be filed. Then he had to go back to his office and type up discoveries for the newest cases they had taken on, send them to his secretary for review, and figure out when he was set for trial dates next week. The opposing attorneys hadn’t gotten back to him on a settlement for the Weekes case, so Alex had gone ahead with trial preparations. _Fuck,_ and he needed a binder for that, too. He made a mental note to add that to the steadily increasing list of tasks he had to pass on to his secretary, and hoped he’d remember to ask her.

The walls passed by in a blur of bland gray and white, interspersed every so often with frosted glass and the occasional doorway, and then his vision was assaulted with something bright pink.

 _Magenta, actually,_ an obnoxious, pretentious, southern-accented voice corrected in his head. Fucking Jefferson.

Alex skidded to a halt, barely avoiding a collision with Jefferson’s chest. “Move.”

Jefferson raised an eyebrow, making no indication of stepping out of the way. “I know you don’t sleep, Hamilton,” he drawled, his voice sickly sweet while his eyes flitted over Alex’s face. “But this is really sad.”

Alex scoffed. “I sleep,” he spat, stepping to the right. Jefferson moved with him. “Just not as much as you. Everyone knows the pretty princess needs her beauty sleep, but I don’t think that concept works the same way for the hideous beast.”

Jefferson’s lip curled in contempt, and he glared at Alex through narrowed eyes. “A bit hypocritical coming from you, don’t you think? Or are those Gucci bags under your eyes a fashion statement?”

Alex reached out to finger the collar of Jefferson’s garish jacket, pressing the velvety fabric between his index finger and his thumb. “You’re one to talk. You wouldn’t know fashion if it bit you in the ass.”

Jefferson shoved his hand away and flicked his fingers along the fabric, brushing invisible dust off his collar. “You think about biting my ass a lot, Hamilton?” His smirk returned when Alex scowled, and he crossed his arms. “So what’s keeping you awake? Trouble with your boyfriend?”

“Why do you care?” Alex was seriously debating whether or not he could get away with punching Jefferson in his stupid, smug face when Washington’s voice sounded from the end of the hallway.

“Mister Jefferson, Mister Hamilton.”

They both straightened, and Alexander watched Jefferson’s smirk slip from his lips as he schooled his expression into a polite, professional mask. Always perfect for the boss.

“I hope you two aren’t arguing again. I would rather not have to fix another hole in my office wall.”

“No, sir,” they echoed. Washington wouldn’t hesitate to kick them both out of the office for the remainder of the day. Alex knew this from experience, and he definitely wasn’t willing to risk getting sent home just because he had decided to throw a punch at Jefferson.

Their boss didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “Alexander, I would like to see you in my office. Now, if you don’t mind.”

He turned and strode back down the hallway. As soon as he disappeared around the corner, Jefferson’s smirk returned.

“Daddy’s calling,” he muttered, his tone a perfect mixture of bitter and condescending. Alex dug his nails into his palms, matching them up with the curved scars that had formed there over the past couple of weeks. “Better go see what he wants.”

Alex’s fingers itched to connect with Jefferson’s nose—Washington couldn’t see them anymore; he could probably do it—but he settled for clipping Jefferson’s shoulder hard as he shoved past, smiling in satisfaction at Jefferson’s undignified squawk of surprise behind him as he continued down the hall to Washington’s office.

When Alex walked into the office, Washington motioned for him to shut the door.

“You haven’t been coming in as early anymore, Alexander,” he said, walking across the room toward his desk. He rested his hands on the back of his chair. “Not that I’m complaining. But you’ve been looking even more exhausted lately. I’m just worried that something’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing, sir,” Alex said quickly. _Shit_ , he hadn’t meant for anyone to notice. He had figured that he just looked as tired as he normally did. “I’ve just been spending a little more time with John, that’s all.”

It wasn’t a lie. He _was_ spending more time with John. He didn’t have to mention that during most of that time, he was in pain and not sleeping.

Washington pulled the chair out and sat down. “Just let me know if you want to take any time off, all right?”

Alex stood, pushing the chair in as he nodded quickly. Anything to get out of the suddenly stifling office. “Of course, sir.”

He managed what he hoped was a genuine smile at his boss as he closed the door behind him and turned to the thankfully empty hallway.

The more he was home, the more John would want to see his tail. He’d probably make up some explanation of Alex being able to relax while he was home, ergo, he would have more energy to transform when John was around.

Alex wouldn’t be using that time off.

. . .

“I love you, baby,” John murmured, pressing a kiss to Alex’s forehead as he stood. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Yeah,” Alex breathed, glancing up at his boyfriend as he kneaded the heels of his palms into his thighs. “See you tonight.”

John grinned, and the sunshine that had been there before was clouded with a sort of hopeful obsession, as if he wasn’t seeing Alex at all. He walked out of the bedroom, and Alex waited for the apartment door to click shut before he let out a pitiful moan.

 _Fuck,_ his legs hurt. He pressed harder with his hands, trying to dull the ever-present pain by applying more pressure, but it didn’t help. Ibuprofen was probably the only thing that would, and even that wouldn’t kick in for another hour. This was the latest John had ever requested he transform, only twenty minutes before Alex had to leave for work, and now he would have to deal with the pain for the first hour or so of his day.

He stumbled across the hall and into the bathroom, leaning heavily against the counter as he fumbled with the door on the cabinet above the sink. With trembling fingers, he twisted the cap and upended the bottle to pour a few of the tiny orange capsules into his palm.

Nothing came out. The bottle was empty.

He released his grip, letting the bottle and its gold-colored cap clatter into the sink. It couldn’t be empty. How was it empty? He could have sworn that there were at least a few more pills left when he had taken the bottle out yesterday. He definitely would have noticed if he had finished the bottle.

But here he was, water dripping from his damp hair onto the floor as he stared at an empty plastic bottle, barely able to stand as he clenched his shaking hands desperately on the edge of the counter. How could he have been so stupid?

Alex limped back into the bedroom, gasping with every step, and collapsed onto the bed. He didn’t bother to fix the rumpled blankets. The clock on the nightstand flashed _7:30 am_ at him in bright red font, and he groaned. If he had to walk to the store and then back, plus the six extra blocks to work, he would be late. Washington had already noticed that he wasn’t coming in as early as he usually did, which was a problem in itself, and being late would only add to whatever suspicion was already growing. He probably wouldn’t be able to make the lengthy walk anyway.

He stared blankly at the handle of the nightstand drawer, as if it somehow held the answers to his problems. Drawer. He had pills in his desk at work, he remembered. He could deal with the pain until he got to work and took the medicine, and then he could lock himself in his office until it kicked in. That sounded like a marginally better plan than walking eight blocks to the nearest drugstore and another eight back.

He dressed slowly, somehow managing to knot his tie twice with trembling fingers before he actually tied it properly, and then he was gritting his teeth and stepping out of the apartment. He smiled tiredly at the people he passed on the sidewalk, but he was pretty sure it came off as more of a grimace. None of the passersby smiled back.

By the time he walked into the lobby of the office building, his legs were screaming in protest and his head was pounding hard enough that his eyes closed of their own accord. It took all of his willpower not to collapse on the floor of the elevator because he knew he wouldn’t want to stand up if he did. He opted instead to lean against the wall, gripping the metal rail with white knuckles as he pressed the button for the forty-seventh floor.

He tried to compose himself when the elevator doors opened; most of his coworkers had probably arrived already, and he didn’t want constant questions about how terrible he knew he must look, with his tie askew and his hair uncombed. He made his way through the office with relative ease, only pausing to flash a brief smile to the receptionist at the front desk. It took a moment to unlock his office door; once he did, he stumbled inside, the sensor-triggered lights flickering on as he crossed the room.

He pulled out the middle drawer, then the bottom, then the top. Papers and pens soon littered his desk as he pulled them from the drawer with shaking hands, dropping them onto the surface with abandon. Colorful thank-you cards from clients, various sticky-note memos that he had written down and then tossed into the drawer, hair ties that he thought he had dropped while he was out. He was starting to lose hope, wondering if he had already taken the pills some other day when he had been in a haze of pain when his fingers brushed against smooth plastic.

He straightened, struggling with the cap for a second, unable to get a decent grip on it with his weak hands. He managed to open it, the simple action taking significantly longer than usual, and upended the bottle. Four small, orange pills fell into his open palm, and he sighed in relief. He didn’t know if he would have been able to get through the day if these pills had been gone too.

He didn’t usually need four. Normally he wouldn’t take more than three, but today wasn’t a normal day.

Only when he heard a light cough did he realize that there was someone in his office other than himself. Figured. He _had_ been pretty loud when he had been digging through his drawers.

When he turned, Jefferson was leaning against the door frame, legs crossed casually at the ankle, obnoxious purple jacket and condescending smirk present and accounted for.

Alex sighed. “The fuck do you want, Jefferson?”

“Oh, you know,” he drawled, obnoxious Southern twang dripping from the vowels. “Just seeing which one of my fine coworkers is making it impossible for me to be productive on this Tuesday morning. Although…” Jefferson gave Alex’s cluttered desk a once-over, and a disdainful sneer replaced the haughty smirk. “I should have expected it to be you. You can’t shut up even when you’re not talking.”

“Fuck you,” Alex muttered. He tipped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry. Sure, _fuck you_ wasn’t anywhere near his best response to Jefferson’s bullshit, but he couldn’t process quickly enough to think of a more eloquent insult. He was dead on his feet, his brain couldn’t form a coherent sentence that didn’t end with an expletive, and if he started anything with Jefferson right now, he figured he would probably pass out on his office floor before he could finish it.

He all but collapsed into his desk chair, and _yes, that was so much better._ His trembling legs finally got a break. He glanced up from the paper-strewn surface after a second, and Jefferson was still standing in his doorway, leaning on the door frame, but much less relaxed. The smirk was gone, and he looked more confused than anything, but even that wasn’t the right word to describe the expression painted across his face. Raised eyebrows, mouth slightly open. Alex didn’t realize he had been staring until the smirk reappeared, quickly replacing whatever had just flitted across Jefferson’s face.

“Popping pills because you can’t deal with your problems the normal way, Hamilton?” Jefferson draped himself fluidly across the doorway again, obnoxious coat and all. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I said fuck off, Jeffershit, or are you deaf?” Alex snapped. He did _not_ have enough energy for this. “And since you asked so nicely, it’s ibuprofen, not LSD.”

Well, there went the not-starting-anything-with-Jefferson. Oops.

Surprisingly, Jefferson didn’t throw back anything that would have inevitably ended in a screaming match. Instead, he turned from the doorway, throwing something about company policy and illicit drug use over his shoulder as he strode down the hall. Alex ignored him and pressed the power button on his computer. He had more important things to do than argue with Jefferson, such as typing up the discovery motion he needed for a newer case.

As he settled into his usual, almost mind-numbing routine of work, his mind began to wander, trying to dissect the look that had crossed Jefferson’s face. Seemingly unrelated, it went through an array of still frames of all his friends when they were worried about him. Eliza’s frowning pout, her lips slightly turned down at the corners. Angelica’s stern but caring eyebrows, the right one slightly raised above the left. Peggy’s wide, loving eyes and warm hugs. Herc’s quiet words and gentle, calming touches. Laf’s mother hen attitude, not letting Alex go out of his way for anything. Washington’s distressed frowns and carefully phrased suggestions of time off.

Jefferson’s parted lips and weirdly clouded eyes.

The asshole had almost looked concerned.

Alex scoffed, rolling his eyes at nothing as he pulled another document toward himself. Hell would have to be crystallized in ice before Thomas Jefferson ever worried about him. The man was cocky, arrogant, and overconfident. He was never worried, anxious, or unsure. Especially when it came to him.

The medicine started working after an hour or so. Alex could still feel the lingering pain in his legs. It never really went away, just dulled enough that he could focus on the task at hand without shifting uncomfortably in his chair every thirty seconds. He managed to work his way through documents for four different cases, only getting up to pass things along to his secretary, use the bathroom, and slam the door in Jefferson’s face when he leaned against the doorway to make a snide comment regarding prescription medicine.

By the time he glanced up from a sixth case file, his watch informed him that it was half past five, and most of the office lights had switched off. He vaguely remembered Burr poking his head into his office some time before, telling him to go home because he looked exhausted.

Alex had to concede to that. He felt exhausted, something that rarely happened when he was focused on his work. He slid the file back into the metal tray on the side of his desk and stretched, grimacing as his back popped. His legs still throbbed, but that was to be expected. It had been at least eight hours since he had last taken medicine, and the ache never really seemed to go away anymore.

He shrugged on his coat and walked out to the elevators, scrolling through the few notifications on his phone as he waited.

 **From John <3**  
**4:43 pm**  
I’ll draw you a bath when you get home  
And we can do your tail before dinner?

The elevator doors opened in front of him, and Alex stepped inside blindly, barely remembering to press the button for the ground floor as he stared at the tiny black text and unthinkingly typed out a response.

 **To John <3**  
**5:37 pm**  
Yeah of course

The elevator doors opened again, facing the lobby this time, and Alex stepped out, calculating times as he walked outside.

If he bought another bottle of ibuprofen now and took a dose before he got home, it would last until midnight or so. That would probably be long enough for him to fall asleep comfortably, and he would hopefully be able to stay asleep even after the medicine wore off. If not, he’d have to stay up until eleven to take another dose before the morning.

He was tired of math.

He took a right and slipped into the tiny drugstore on the corner, wandering through the aisles until he spotted the gold-labeled bottle on the end of a shelf. He picked it up, listening to the familiar click of the pills inside the container as he walked back to the checkout. After he had paid and walked out, he tipped two pills into his hand and rifled through his bag for his water bottle to wash them down.

If he took them now, it would probably be fine.

All too soon, he was back at the apartment, toeing his shoes off at the door and draping his coat over the tree-like rack in the corner. He counted his footsteps as he walked down the hall. One. Two. Three. Four. Each one seemed slower than the last. John called to him from the bedroom, and he answered. He wasn’t entirely sure what words came out of his mouth.

Under the bright fluorescent lights of the bathroom, he stared unblinkingly at the bottle in his hands. The words blurred together, a mix of black, white, and gold. He blinked, and shook his head, setting the bottle on the edge of the counter.

He didn’t believe the pills really worked anymore.

He sighed and turned away from the taunting orange glow that seemed to emanate from the bottle, facing instead the empty bathtub. It was clean. Before, it had never been this clean. They had used it regularly, sure, but they hadn’t cleaned it as much as they did now. There were no water rings around the interior, no soap markings along the sides, no mildew building up in the cracks between the tiles that lined the wall. It was an image of perfect innocence.

He reached down to twist the metal plug into the drain, and pulled the handle on the faucet. He let the warm water run over his fingers for a moment before he pulled his hand away, drying it mindlessly on his shirt before he began to undress.

Maybe he didn’t have to do this. Maybe he didn’t have to step into that water. Maybe he didn’t have to deal with pain so crippling that he couldn’t focus on anything else for hours on end. He could just walk out right now and tell John he didn’t want to do this anymore, that he didn't want to continue whatever this thing was that he had agreed to.

John’s figure blocked the doorway when Alex turned around. A gentle smile played across his face. “Hey, baby. How was work?”

Alex turned back toward the bath, eyeing the rippling water. “It was fine.” He pressed the handle of the faucet back down, shutting off the flow of water. The surface stopped rippling after a moment, and he stepped over the edge, settling into the warmth and gritting his teeth through the pain as his bones somehow rearranged beneath his skin to form a tail.

John didn’t say anything. Alex was used to it by now.

John braced his arm against the counter as he sat down, staring at Alex’s tail all the while. His elbow knocked against the bottle of ibuprofen on the edge, sending it clattering to the floor. The vibrant pills rattled against each other as the plastic bottle rolled away, and Alex followed the dim orange glow as it traveled over the pale tiles.

John twisted around and picked the bottle up off the floor, glancing absently at the label before pushing it back up onto the counter. “Why do we need so much ibuprofen?” he asked. He turned back to Alex and plunged his hand into the water, running his fingers down Alex’s tail. “I thought we had some of this already.”

“I used all of it,” Alex replied. There wasn’t any use lying about where all the pills had gone.

“This much?” John twisted to look back up at the counter, reaching up with his right hand to grab the bottle again while keeping his left on Alex’s scales. “This bottle has 500 pills. It should take, like, eight months to go through this entire thing if you took a couple pills every day.” He turned the bottle over, scanning the label. “And it says here that you shouldn’t do that.”

“I told you before,” Alex muttered, bracing his hands against the bottom of the tub as he pushed himself into a more comfortable position. The ends of tail fins folded back on themselves, flopping into the water. The bath really was too small for this. “The transformation is painful. I take that stuff every day.”

He didn’t add that he had to use it every day because John asked him to transform every day. He didn’t snap that it was unbelievably painful to transform once, not to mention three times a day. He didn’t say that, if he could, he would never transform again.

“You wouldn’t have to if you just got used to it,” John said. He traced circles over the base of Alex’s tail, right where his hip would be when he had legs. The sensation would have been calming had his body not been extremely sensitive from the regular bouts of pain. “You know, like exercise.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Alex said quietly, but he realized John wasn’t paying attention anymore. His eyes had gone glassy, and his fingers moved in repetitive motions over the same few inches of Alex’s tail.

That was fine; Alex didn’t feel like arguing tonight. He had started to feel an ache behind his eyes about twenty minutes ago, and it had only gotten worse. The deep, pulsing pain in his lower body was still there, though somewhat dulled by his lack of movement. He knew that, by the time he got out of the water, it would all come back full force, and the ache in his head would have turned into pounding.

He stared at the placid surface of the water, poking the tips of his fingers out into the cool air before drawing them back under, and wondered how long he could keep this up before something snapped.

He wondered if that something would be his body.

. . .

The next morning, Alex sat at the breakfast bar in the office kitchen, staring down at the city streets through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He had allowed himself a ten-minute break after dropping files mindlessly on Burr’s secretary’s desk, and now he was slumped in a chair with a cup of tea clutched between his hands as he rested his aching legs and prayed for his pounding headache to go away.

Everything looked so tiny from up this high, slow and insignificant. He could see miniscule people walking across the streets in crowds; buses with numbers painted on their tops, readable even from this high; dozens of bright yellow taxis and other cars slowly making their way through the midday traffic. Each of them had their own lives, their own problems, their own destinations, but from more than four hundred feet above the ground, none of it seemed real.

The pounding in his head reached a roaring crescendo, and Alex groaned and screwed his eyes shut, dropping his head over his mug to breathe in the steam from his tea. The warm vapor did nothing to push away the pain behind his eyes.

“Sleeping at work, Hamilton?”

Alex forced his eyes open and glared at Jefferson as best he could. “Fuck you.”

“Hmm, no thanks.” Jefferson sauntered over to the counter and began rifling through the packets of tea. “You’re not my type.”

Alex scoffed and dropped his head down again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “And why would you think that I care?”

Alex could hear the clink of a mug being taken from the cabinet, and the ripping sound of paper from the tea packet. “Your ego,” Jefferson drawled. “You’d be devastated if someone wasn’t attracted to your nonexistent charms.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Alex muttered, pressing his hands against his eyes until bright spots appeared. He pushed himself upright so he could glare at Jefferson again. “Could you leave? I’m trying to relax, and your presence is not conducive to relaxation.”

“Alexander Hamilton trying to relax?” Jefferson gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in exaggerated astonishment as he faked a stumble against the counter. “Somebody call the press. The world must be ending.”

“Shut up,” Alex snapped, rolling his eyes. “It’s not as unusual as you might think.”

At least Jefferson wasn’t wearing magenta today. The hideously bright color would definitely have aggravated Alex’s headache if he’d had to stare at that instead of Jefferson’s neutral dress shirt and tie.

“Oh, it is, darlin’,” Jefferson smirked, picking up his cup of tea. “You always resemble a zombie that just crawled out of hell.”

“Just fuck off, Jefferson,” Alex muttered, staring blankly out the window.

“Actually,” Jefferson said, walking slowly over to the breakfast bar and pulling out the chair directly beside Alex. “It’s quite peaceful in here. I think I’ll stay, if you don’t mind.”

Alex shoved his chair away from the counter and stood up, gripping the back of his chair while his tired legs adjusted to his full weight. “I do mind,” he said. “Because you’re an ass.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Jefferson said, pulling his phone from his pocket as he sat down. “You’re welcome to stay.”

“Like hell I’m staying in here with you,” Alex spat. “I’d rather sit with Burr.”

“Your loss,” Jefferson said, sipping his tea and scrolling through an email inbox on his phone, looking thoroughly bored. He made no indication of moving.

Alex hated to let Jefferson have the last word, but the pounding in his head had returned as soon as he had stood up, and he would much rather make it back to his desk before he collapsed than sit back down beside Jefferson.

Alex turned his back on the kitchen and began his walk down the hallway, closing his eyes every few steps and making sure he didn’t lean against the wall until he knew Jefferson couldn’t see him anymore.

It took too long to get back to his desk, and he placed his cup out of harm’s way before he put his head down on top of a stack of papers.

He would be fine. It was only six more hours.

But by the time his watch showed five-o’clock, it had felt like significantly more than six hours. He had abandoned his tea after drinking less than a third of it. His headache had gotten worse after he’d left Jefferson in the kitchen, and even the thought of weak tea had made his stomach churn.

He barely remembered leaving the office, and he definitely didn’t remember his walk home. All he focused on was making sure each footstep wasn’t rough enough to send jarring pains through his head, or large enough to strain his stiff legs.

He was present when he moved slowly around his kitchen, placing dishes carefully in the cabinet and wincing every time his grip faltered and the glassware banged against something else. Every clink of the glass cups and every clang of metal silverware sparked a bit more pain in his head when the noise reached his ears, and every turn he made to face a different cabinet set the pounding off again as soon as it had finally subsided.

John had asked him to transform when he had gotten home, and his migraine had worsened after that. His legs were throbbing again, having been tired and stiff for most of the day, and his hips felt as if they were permanently fused to something immovable. He could feel a pulsing in his jaw, but he couldn’t stretch it out after hours of clenching it to deal with the persistent pain in the rest of his body. All it had done was add to his headache after the first hour or so.

At some point, Alex found himself gripping the corner of the wooden table, gritting his teeth and tensing his shoulders as he tried not to cry. His dish towel lay abandoned on the counter beside the sink, beneath the quietly buzzing light that he had only turned on so he had enough light to see what he was doing, but not so much that he had to close his eyes every two seconds.

He was in pain, exhausted, felt impossibly broken, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing worked.

The bottle of pills sat on the counter where he had left them after getting out of the bath. He couldn’t take any until he ate something. He’d managed to scrape by with a light lunch just so he could take some before he went home, but the lack of food with the medicine was starting to upset his stomach. And he never wanted to eat anything because taking three pills several times a day made his stomach feel awful.

It was all a giant circle, around and around with no end in sight. Nothing worked. And nothing ever would, so why did he bother? How long was he willing to put up with this?

. . .

One week.

That was how long Alex managed for after he bought the new bottle of ibuprofen. One week of two or three transformations a day, one week of constant pain, one week of carefully counting pills and trying to predict when John would want to see his tail so he could take the pain relievers at the right time and not have to deal with agonizing days and sleepless nights.

One week. Seven days. One-hundred and sixty-eight hours. Staring at the calendar on his phone, it seemed like such a short amount of time, just seven tiny electronic boxes crammed with colorfully flagged tasks for work. But when he was just going day by day, thinking only as far as the next hour instead of looking at dates, it felt like forever.

When you were in constant pain, Alex realized, a single hour felt like two or three. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t get his mind off the counts in his head; eight hours until John would want to see his scales, two hours until he could take more medicine; he’d have to hold off for seven hours if he wanted the medicine to kick in before he had to get in the water. He felt (or maybe imagined; he wasn’t really sure) a constant throbbing in his stiff legs, as if the pain wanted to torment him even after he had taken more than the suggested dose of ibuprofen.

He sighed, shifting his twinging legs under the desk to snap himself back into the present. He’d been trying to find the right words for two hours, going over them in his head before scribbling what seemed like the perfect sentence onto a paper, a period dotted decisively at the end. His eyes jumped back to the beginning to read it over, but all that was there was a mess of jumbled words. He crossed it out and started over.

He cradled a heated pit pack between his shoulder and his head, pressed against his jaw and neck. The heat usually helped with the headaches. He wanted to stretch his legs out more than he could inside the cramped space under the desk, but he had to finish this letter first.

More scribbles, more sentences, more jumbled and imperfect thoughts. More harshly crossed-out words littering the paper, and crumpled papers littering the floor. The sun disappeared behind the buildings across the street, and still Alex didn’t have the right words.

Footsteps scratched against the carpet, warm arms draped over his shoulders, and then John’s caramel curls were obscuring his vision.

“Come to bed,” John murmured, brushing his lips softly against Alex’s skin. “It’s late.”

“Yeah, I know.” Alex leaned forward over the desk, skimming over the sentences he had already written before crumpling the paper again and tossing it over his shoulder. It still didn't feel right. It probably never would, but he had to have something more than _I’m sorry_ scratched across the page. “I have to finish something.”

“Work is for _work_ , Alex. Not home.” John twisted to press a kiss to Alex’s cheek. “You can do stuff for your cases on Monday.”

“I know, just…” Alex stared at the surface of the desk in front of him. “Let me finish this first, okay? That’s all. I promise.”

“Don’t be up too late, okay?” John pressed another kiss to the top of his head before pulling away. “I was gonna ask you to show me your tail again, but we can do that in the morning, right?”

“Yeah,” Alex whispered. He didn’t look up from the desk, letting his eyes trace over a water ring marring the smooth surface. “Of course.”

One last kiss to his shoulder, and then John had crossed the room to lie down on the bed. After a while, his soft snores filled the room, and Alex was virtually alone with only the warm light of the lamp for company. He bit his lip, pulled another sheet of paper from the stack to his left, and began his letter again.

It didn’t end up being as long as almost everything else he wrote. It barely took up half the page, and it seemed inadequate. Alex felt that John deserved a better explanation than the impassive words he had hastily scribbled onto the page, but he couldn’t think of anything else to write. An apology, of course, but what then? An explanation?

Alex shoved the chair back from the desk as quietly as he could. John was a heavy sleeper; it had been perfect back in college when Alex would stay up until all hours perfecting whatever paper he was obsessing over on any given day. John probably wouldn’t wake up from a sound as small as a chair moving smoothly on a hardwood floor, but Alex didn’t want to risk it.

He padded softly across the floor to the bed, glancing down at John for a second before leaning over to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. John shifted slightly but didn’t wake, and Alex walked out of the bedroom, his note clutched between his fingers.

Alex paused in the entryway only to slip on his shoes and pull his jacket off the rack beside the door. He picked up his bag as he glanced around the silent apartment once more, letting his eyes flit over the familiar objects he would probably never see again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the silent apartment, to the dark bedroom where John slept peacefully unaware. “I’m sorry, John.”

Then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him. The single piece of paper half-filled with his cramped writing lay on the kitchen table, his key to the apartment resting across the top right corner.

. . .

_John,_

_I’m sorry. For a lot of things, I’m sorry. For breaking up with you, for leaving without saying goodbye, for only giving you this letter as an explanation. I’m sorry, John._

_I always thought it seemed cowardly to break up with someone by writing a letter, but I don’t know how else to do this. I wouldn’t have been able to look at you, to see the tears that would have undoubtedly filled your eyes when I told you what you never wanted to hear. I probably wouldn’t even have been able to say the words that I’m writing here, and I would have kept dealing with the pain instead of facing it head-on._

_I trusted you a lot, and I suppose I still do because that’s how it works with someone you’ve known forever. That’s how it works with someone you love. But you hurt me, and I don’t think I can go another day believing that everything is going to turn out okay. Maybe we’ll be able to try this again someday, but right now, I can’t._

_I don’t know how to explain any better than this, but I hope you’ll forgive me._

_Love,_  
_Alexander_


	2. Part 2

Alex only realized after he had walked eight blocks that he didn’t know where he was walking to.

He paused at a corner, watching the headlights of cars illuminate the asphalt in front of them before they passed and the street was cloaked in darkness again. The trees rustled as the wind whistled between the branches, and Alex watched a scattering of buds fall from the branches while he pondered his options.

He couldn’t explain to Laf and Herc why he had left his apartment and broken up with John through a letter. He couldn’t tell the Schuylers anything because Angelica would press and Eliza would cry and Peggy would somehow fish an unwilling confession out of him even after he told her he didn’t want to talk about it. They all would try to get him and John to make up, and even though their intentions would be good at heart, Alex didn’t want to do that.

He couldn’t tell anyone about his tail because they wouldn’t believe him, and he wasn’t about to show them because it would hurt like hell. He could already feel the ibuprofen he had taken an hour ago wearing off. He absently wondered if he had taken the medication frequently enough and in high enough doses that it wouldn’t be effective in alleviating his pain anymore. Probably. He _had_ gone through a single bottle in around two months, and even though it had been partially empty, he could have an addiction of some sort. Could you get addicted to ibuprofen?

He shook his head. Any potential addiction to painkillers could be sorted out later. What mattered now was that he didn’t have a place to stay.

Alex glanced absently over the street signs at the corner, his eyes skimming over the worn white text. _West 107th Street and Manhattan Avenue._ He paused, staring at the signs until the words didn’t look like real words anymore.

Jefferson lived around here. He recalled seeing Jefferson’s address on one of the many contact lists that had been sent around the office as they hired new members. If he was remembering correctly, it was only a few blocks away from where he was currently standing.

But was Jefferson really his best option?

He sighed.

Jefferson was his only option.

So he started walking, forming some semblance of a plan from the scattered thoughts in his head as he went.

He wouldn’t tell Jefferson about his tail. He couldn’t. They argued all the time, constantly searching for the ammunition that would do the most damage against the other. Had they lived in a different time period, they probably would have been arch-nemeses. That being said, if he told Jefferson anything about his one weakness and Jefferson actually believed him, he would find some way to get Alex fired, moved off cases, anything.

He glanced at the addresses on the front of each building he passed, dark metal numbers illuminated by glowing porch lights. _729\. 731. 733._

He came upon another street, lit only by the gently flickering street lights floating high above the pavement. He looked both ways even though most of the streets he had come upon had been deserted, crossed, and kept walking. _735\. 737._

If Jefferson rejected him, or if he had been mistaken and the address he was searching for wasn’t Jefferson’s address at all, he’d have to figure out something else. And this late at night, the only other options he had were his friends, as much as he didn’t want it to end up like that.

 _743._ He walked up the two steps to the porch and squinted at the name etched onto the mailbox. _Jefferson._ So this was Jefferson’s house. He’d expected something a bit more showy and ostentatious, but then again, property in New York _was_ expensive, even for a successful lawyer.

Alex stared at the closed door. He’d have to wing it now, unless he wanted to figure out somewhere else to sleep tonight. He took a breath, raised his hand, and knocked.

Jefferson opened the door after a few moments, and stared blankly for a second before he seemed to realize just who was staring back at him. He didn’t look overly surprised to see Alex standing on his doorstep, as if it was normal for his coworker to show up at his house unannounced in the middle of the night. It was actually a reasonable assumption to make, Alex realized. He probably would follow Jefferson home to finish making a point if the man decided to walk out on him in the middle of a tangent.

“If you’re here to continue the argument we were having over the most effective way to pursue the witnesses for the case that Washington put _me_ on, I’ll have you know that—”

“I’m not,” Alex cut in. “Although your so-called ‘organization’”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“in that case is stupid and completely ineffective.”

“Wonderful,” Jefferson drawled. “Very eloquent. Now, if you’re done, would you be so kind as to tell me why the fuck you showed up at my house at—” He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and glanced at the screen. “Eleven o’clock on a Friday night?”

“I…” Alex hadn’t really thought of what he was actually going to say. He figured Jefferson would have slammed the door in his face without letting him get a word in. “I need a place to stay?”

Jefferson stared at him. “Why?”

Alex shifted uncomfortably under Jefferson’s gaze, but refused to look away. “I… I can’t tell you.”

“And you expect me to let you stay here without giving me a reason?” Jefferson reached back to slip his phone into his pocket, bracing himself against the door frame. “What if you’re hiding from the police or something? I could be named as an accomplice.”

“I’m not fucking running from the police, all right?” Alex shifted his weight from his right leg to his left. He could feel the throbbing pain in his legs returning. Fucking useless ibuprofen. “I didn’t do anything illegal.”

“Then why are you here?” Jefferson drawled, raising a single eyebrow. “The only reason you’d come to me is if you did something illegal because your friends wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Would you get off the illegal stuff?” Alex snapped. He shifted his weight again, gripping the railing with white knuckles. “I just need a place to stay for a night.”

“I’ll let you in if I get an explanation,” Jefferson said smoothly. “No explanation, no entry.”

“You know what, fine,” Alex snapped. He stepped off the porch and down the steps. “I’ll go somewhere else. I don’t answer to you.”

His legs decided to collapse under him three steps down the walkway and he stumbled, barely catching his balance before he ended up on the concrete. His head spun as he stared at the swaying shadows of tree branches on the sidewalk, and then Jefferson’s hands were on his shoulders.

“Jesus, Hamilton,” he muttered, bracing Alex’s weight with his own. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing,” Alex muttered, shrugging his shoulders as he tried to dislodge Jefferson’s grip. “I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not,” Jefferson said. “Come inside. I don’t want to get fired when Washington finds out his golden boy happened to pass out and die on my front lawn.”

“I’m not going to pass out and die,” Alex snapped, twisting to stare defiantly into Jefferson’s face. “And I’m not Washington’s golden boy. Now, will you let go of me?”

“Are you going to fall over again?” Jefferson asked. Alex glared at him, and Jefferson released his grip on Alex’s arms with a sigh. “Just come inside,” he muttered, gesturing to his still-open door. “No conditions.”

“No,” Alex said roughly, readjusting the bag on his shoulder. “You’ll find a loophole in that somehow and try to blackmail me with some bullshit law that doesn’t even apply in this situation because it’s not a court case.”

“How did you become a lawyer, Hamilton?” He hadn’t moved away after letting go of Alex’s arms, and was still eyeing him as if he expected Alex to collapse at any second. “If anything is bullshit, it’s your extremely flawed reasoning.”

“I don’t know why the fuck I came to you in the first place,” Alex said. “You’re an ass.”

“I don’t either, darlin’,” Jefferson drawled. “But here we are.”

“Could you not fucking call me that?” Alex asked, shifting his bag to his other shoulder. “Your stupid southern nicknames get on my nerves.”

Jefferson smirked. “I know.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re still dating Laurens, right?” Jefferson straightened and stepped away from Alex’s side as he slid his phone from his pocket again, tapping a few times before sliding one of his fingers over the screen. “I think I might have his number here somewhere—”

“No!” Alex snatched at the phone, but Jefferson held it up out of his reach. “Just… don’t call him. Please.”

Jefferson raised an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?” he smirked, but pocketed his phone. “Fine. Doesn’t matter to me. Come on.”

Jefferson turned and walked back up the steps, leaving the door open behind him. Alex blinked, following after a second. He hadn’t expected Jefferson to cave at all after he asked for an explanation, so something would probably give in a day or two, but right now, he’d take what he could get.

After closing the door behind him, he glanced around at the simple interior, seemingly immaculate from top to bottom. Should he take off his shoes? Jefferson seemed like the type of person who would want his guests to take off their shoes before they walked through his house.

Alex snorted. Since when did he care what Jefferson thought? He slipped his shoes off anyway, pushing them behind the door before he stepped off the rug.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” Jefferson threw over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “Bathroom is down the hall on your left.”

He paused momentarily in front of a closed door, twisting the doorknob and flicking a light switch on the inside wall before motioning Alex inside.

The room was nice. It wasn’t what he had expected, but then again, Alex hadn’t thought about what he had expected Jefferson’s house to look like. Something magenta, maybe. But this bedroom, at least, was decorated in tones of blue and dark gray, with dark wood furniture. It was nice.

He turned from admiring the bedroom’s interior to face Jefferson. He was still standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorknob.

“I’d say sleep well, but I know you don’t sleep, so I won’t waste my breath.” He didn’t wait for Alex to reply before he pulled the door shut behind him. Alex waited until he could no longer hear muffled footsteps on hardwood floor before he walked over to the neatly made bed and sat down, taking his phone out of his pocket as he walked.

The picture on his lockscreen was of him and John, about a year or so into their relationship. They’d been messing around outside somewhere, one day when the weather was nice and all their friends had gotten together. John had decided that Alex was light enough to pick up and carry, and he’d run around laughing with Alex in his arms, ignoring all the protests to put him down. Eliza had taken the picture, unnoticed by both himself and John, and sent it to him the next day.

Alex stared at the picture for a moment, memorizing the patterns of freckles scattered across John’s face and the happy smile that played on his own lips before he pressed the power button and let the device shut down. He didn’t really need his phone for anything. He had his laptop for work and emails and the like, and his friends wouldn’t worry too much if he didn’t text back because he regularly forgot to charge his phone.

He just didn’t think he would be able to ignore the notifications if John decided to text or call him. He didn’t know what he would say if John actually picked up, and John asked for an explanation. He didn’t want to say that he’d go running back in an instant, but he knew that he would.

It was surprisingly easy to ignore someone.

. . .

Alex turned his phone back on after two days. As expected, there were numerous missed calls from John, and even more texts. There were a few from his other friends; Laf, Herc, and Angelica were all expressing concern for his whereabouts and asking whether he and John had fought.

He typed quick, impassive replies to his friends, but swiped away John’s texts, trying not to let his eyes scan the worry filled previews that appeared in his notification bar. He didn’t listen to the voicemails.

A week and a half of living with Jefferson wasn’t as terrible as Alex thought it would be. For the most part, they avoided each other. Alex woke up early and came back late, spending as much time at the office as he had before. When he was at Jefferson’s house, he was either sleeping, or catching up on a few new books that he’d started, staying in the guest room until Jefferson forced him to come to the table to eat.

_“You’re a guest, Hamilton.”_

_Jefferson set a bowl of vegetables onto the table. The silverware rattled. “Which means you have to follow my rules, and my rules say you have to eat something.”_

_Alex slid into a chair and pulled a dish of rice toward himself. “Doesn’t mean you have to boss me around like a child.”_

_“I’m not.” Jefferson seated himself in the other chair, tossing the pot holders he had been using onto the counter. “I’m just being polite. Southern hospitality and all that.”_

_“Southern hospitality, my ass.”_

At work they argued, vicious as ever. The competitive attitude between the two of them hadn’t faded in the slightest, and staff meetings were still inevitably held up by their subtle jabs at each other.

_“Hamilton, for the last time, I don’t know why you think that taking on this case is a good idea.”_

_Jefferson sat on the other side of the table, twisting his chair from side to side as he twirled his pen between his fingers. “The potential client is obviously in the wrong. We’d be taking a losing case.”_

_Alex glared at Jefferson, so stupidly relaxed in his stupid swivel chair. “Just because you have no empathy doesn’t mean this man has to suffer.” His hand jerked involuntarily, scratching a long line across his notes. “We could win this case if we took it.”_

_Jefferson raised an eyebrow, leaning forward on the table. “What, by lying?”_

_Alex stood, dropping his pen on the table. “What the fuck are you suggesting?”_

_“Gentlemen, please.” Washington looked rather tired, gaze focused on his meeting notes rather than the two men glaring at each other halfway down the table. “I would appreciate it if we kept this meeting civil. With that being said, we will not be taking this person on as a client.”_

_Alex opened his mouth to argue, but Washington had already moved on to the next topic of discussion. He dropped back into his chair, and ignored Jefferson’s haughty smirk from across the table._

Then there were the arguments they had in passing, pointless in every way except for letting off steam.

_“Watch where you’re going, Jefferson.”_

_“Just because you always have your nose stuck in some document doesn’t mean it’s my fault you ran into me, Hamilton.”_

And the stupidly petty actions that were somehow the basis of many disagreements.

_“Hey, hold the door!”_

_Alex clutched a stack of precariously balanced papers in his arms, trying to make it to the closing elevator without dropping them all over the floor. Jefferson’s smug face was the last thing he saw before the doors slid shut._

But despite all their fighting, Alex hadn’t heard any whispered rumors about himself floating around the office. He was honestly surprised that Jefferson hadn’t spread it around that Alex had appeared on his doorstep begging for a place to stay, but no one had mentioned anything directly to him. Washington had commented offhandedly that he looked less tired than he had a few months ago, but that was all.

Alex realized after two weeks that he had slowly been taking less ibuprofen than he had the night he’d ended up on Jefferson’s doorstep. The bottle of pills lay forgotten at the bottom of the empty bag that now rested against the dark wooden dresser in Jefferson’s guest room.

He figured he’d never need to take them again, considering he wouldn’t be showing Jefferson his tail, and John…

No. He wasn’t going to feel bad about breaking up with John. Alex had done what was best for himself, and that was that.

That evening found Alex at Jefferson’s kitchen table once again, sitting in the same chair he’d been using for two weeks, as Jefferson put the finishing touches on dinner.

“You’re so thin,” Jefferson said, placing a steaming dish of something green onto the table. “Do you ever eat?”

Jefferson had, without fail, managed to force Alex to come to the table for dinner every night for two weeks. Most of their conversations during that time ranged from finishing arguments that had begun at work to petty insult battles that ended with one or both of them storming away from the table.

“No, I never eat,” Alex said, rolling his eyes. “Yes. I have to. How would I still be alive at this point if I never ate?”

Jefferson was right, although Alex would never admit it. He was thin. Month after month of multiple transformations a day had taken its toll. He knew he’d lost a lot of weight just from that; it probably burned a lot of calories. That, combined with how little he actually consumed when he did manage to eat, had led to multiple people commenting on his apparently obvious weight loss.

“You could be a soul-sucking monster who lives off the blood of its enemies” Jefferson drawled, pulling out a chair. “You never know.”

“You would know about soul-sucking monsters,” Alex muttered.

Jefferson raised an eyebrow. “Is that an innuendo?” he asked, unfolding his napkin and laying it carefully over his lap. “Because it really sounds like—”

“No,” Alex snapped, stabbing the serving spoon into the bowl of green. “Don’t try to make it one. I’d rather not be thinking about sex while I’m eating dinner with you.”

Jefferson snorted. “Trust me, Hamilton, I feel the same way.”

Alex gasped dramatically, pressing a hand against his chest in faux surprise. “Thomas Jefferson? Agreeing with me? The world must be ending.”

“Wonderful,” Jefferson said. “Now eat your fucking vegetables.”

. . .

“I’m going out,” Alex shouted. He figured Jefferson was somewhere in the house, and if he wasn’t, then Alex would just be yelling at empty rooms. He doubted they would complain. “Don’t wait up.”

“Where are you going?” So he was here. Probably in the kitchen, it sounded like.

“I told you. Out.” Alex shoved his other arm through his jacket sleeve. “You’re not my father. I don’t need to tell you where I am every second of the day.”

“What, you don’t want to call me daddy?”

 _Jesus Christ._ “Fuck you!” Alex shouted.

“What time?” Alex could hear the condescending smirk that was undoubtedly plastered across Jefferson’s face. Asshole.

He growled, not bothering with a response that Jefferson would twist into some other sexual innuendo. Just before he slammed the door, he heard Jefferson’s laughter from the kitchen, and he smiled despite his annoyance.

He’d never heard Jefferson laugh before, which, put in context, made a lot of sense. The moment Alex walked into a room, even if Jefferson had been talking amicably with Madison or Burr, Alex usually managed to start or continue some stupid argument.

It was only a few blocks to the nearest bar, but the walk did nothing to clear his head. It seemed like an eternity before he pulled open the door, stepping inside and out of the wind.

He walked across the dimly lit room, dodging around sticky tables and dancing couples, and slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, farthest from the windows. When the bartender reached him, he ordered something nonalcoholic.

He didn’t want to get drunk, and he definitely didn’t want to end up going home with some stranger. He just wanted to forget. No, not even forget. Just… stop thinking for a couple of hours. About John, about Jefferson, about himself, and the loud, inky atmosphere of the bar was perfect for that.

. . .

Alex rapped his bloody knuckles against the hard wood of the door again. It wasn’t late. At least, it wasn’t late by his standards. Jefferson probably had some small amount of common sense, and he definitely possessed more self preservation than Alex did, so it would make sense if he was already asleep.

He hadn’t meant to get in a fight, he really hadn’t. Some dumbass had spilled their drink on him, and everything had escalated from there. Normally, he’d brush of that sort of stupid, drunken mistake and move on, but tonight, it had been the thing that pushed him over the edge.

The door swung open after a third round of knocking, and Alex glanced up wearily. Jefferson was standing with his hand braced against the door frame, mouth open and ready to spit a harsh rebuke at whomever had thought it a good idea to pound on his door at such a late hour. When his eyes met Alex’s, his face went through an impressive, colorful, and almost amusing range of reactions before settling on shock.

“What the hell happened to you, Hamilton?”

Alex shook his head and shoved past Jefferson, knocking the man’s hand off the door frame. “I got in a fight,” he muttered, wincing as he put his full weight onto his injured leg. “I’m fine.”

“You sure as hell don’t look fine,” Jefferson muttered. Alex scowled. The door clicked shut, and then Jefferson’s hand was resting on his shoulder. “Who’d you fight? An entire gang?”

“I said I’m fine.” Alex lifted his hand up to push Jefferson’s fingers off his shoulder, not bothering to look back at him. “You don’t need to comment.”

“You just came back to _my_ house, Hamilton. You’re covered in blood. I think I get to comment.” A pause. “Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m fucking not!” Alex twisted to face him, ignoring the pain that flared in his back. He wasn’t in the mood for questions. He just wanted to take care of his aching hands and go to sleep. “And you know what, Jefferson? I really don’t—”

“Is that a black eye?” Alex quickly turned his gaze back to the floor, leaning his head forward so his hair fell to cover his face. “Jesus Christ.”

Alex flexed his fingers, wincing slightly. “Where’s your ice?”

Jefferson snorted. “Where do you think? In the freezer.”

Alex rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment. He turned his back on Jefferson and stalked into the kitchen. He fumbled with the freezer door for a moment, trying to find a way to grasp it without putting much pressure on his scraped palms. He managed to open it without an unbearable amount of pain, and picked out a few pieces of ice.

“Here.” Jefferson shoved a thin cloth at him. “Put it in this. And hold it over the sink. I don’t want it dripping all over the floor when it melts.”

Alex rolled his eyes again. “Fine.”

He dropped his handful of ice cubes into the cloth and gripped the corners in his left hand. He brushed past Jefferson on his way out of the kitchen. “But I’m going to do it in the bathroom.”

He had turned back toward the hallway, the ice-filled cloth pressed against his knuckles, when Jefferson spoke again.

“Wait.”

Alex turned back, eyebrows raised. Jefferson shifted, biting his lip as he let his arms fall to his sides. He shrugged, and Alex mused that he looked almost nervous. “Let me help. I’ll run a bath, and then—”

_“I ran a bath for you.” Hands resting on his hips, gentle but controlling._

“No!”

Jefferson’s lips stopped moving, abruptly cutting off whatever the rest of the sentence would have been. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if trying to find an appropriate response, finally settling on, “Why the hell not?”

Alex kicked at the floor, pressing the ice-filled cloth harder onto his hand. “I… I don’t need help, all right? I can do it myself.”

“Like hell you can.” Jefferson stepped forward, reaching out to wrap his long fingers around Alex’s wrist, and Alex’s heart stopped while his mind dragged him back to the night with John in the hallway. John’s grip on his wrist had been tight enough that Alex had expected to see bruises the next morning. Jefferson’s grip wasn’t nearly as tight, but the placement of his fingers still made Alex freeze.

“Look.” Jefferson twisted his arm over, knocking the makeshift ice pack off as he turned Alex’s hand palm-up. Angry red cuts crisscrossed the torn, friction-burned skin, and a few bruises had bloomed across his knuckles. “You can’t do anything with your hands, darlin’.”

Alex wrenched his wrist easily from Jefferson’s grasp. “I can,” he protested, ignoring the fact that the simple motion of knocking on Jefferson’s door had sent pain from his knuckles down through his entire hand. “I’m fine.”

Jefferson rolled his eyes. “You said that already,” he snapped. “You’re so fucking stubborn.”

“Yeah, I know, thanks for reminding me. It’s one of my best qualities.”

Jefferson looked about ready to explode. “Could you be serious for maybe one second and see that I’m trying to help you?”

Alex twisted his lips and glanced up at the ceiling. “Let me think. No.”

“Will you just let me run you a bath?” Jefferson was trying to be calm, Alex could tell. It was the same tone he used when they argued at the office and he wanted to get out of listening to whatever Alex was shouting at him in that moment. “And then you can do everything else by yourself since you’re so insistent on not needing help.”

“Just back off, all right?” Somehow, Alex wasn’t surprised that he was yelling, throwing a tantrum and stomping his feet like a toddler. Jefferson managed to get that reaction out of him. “I said no.”

Jefferson threw his hands out to the sides. “Well, why the hell not?”

“You asked that already.” Alex was deflecting, he knew; stalling, but he didn’t have anything better. “Now you’re just repeating yourself.”

“Well, if you’d just _tell me_ why you don’t want fucking a bath, I’d back off,” Jefferson shouted. They always resorted to shouting. That was what usually got them reprimanded by Washington. If they had been quieter, their boss probably wouldn’t have minded as much since he wouldn’t have had to deal with their coworkers’ daily complaints about their incessantly loud arguments.

“Since when have I ever told you anything?” Alex snapped. “We hate each other, we don’t—”

“Since you barged into _my_ house, encroached on _my_ life, and didn’t give me a reason for that, either,” Jefferson cut in. He stepped closer. “I accepted that, and I let it go. But now you won’t give me a reason for this, and I just want to know why—”

“Because it would just be more painful than the injuries I already have!”

Jefferson froze in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was significantly softer than it had been moments before. “What?”

Alex stepped back, opened his mouth and then closed it again. The words wouldn’t come. _Fuck,_ he needed to learn to hold his tongue. “Forget it.”

Jefferson took a step toward him again, shaking his head. His tongue poked out from between his teeth, and his eyebrows were furrowed. “No, wait, what does that mean?”

He sounded genuinely curious, as if he actually cared. But he didn’t, because this was Jefferson, the pompous Virginian asshole with whom Alex argued nearly every day.

“I said forget it.” Alex tugged at the torn, bloody edge of his shirt. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“Oh yeah?” Jefferson crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. “Try me, Hamilton.”

Alex glared at him, and Jefferson didn’t break eye contact, glaring right back. Brown eyes met brown, unblinking, and Alex broke first.

“Fine,” he growled, stalking toward the table to yank out a chair. The legs clattered against the floor, and Alex tried not to wince at the pain that the motion triggered in his hands. “But try not to run away screaming when you realize I’m a freak.”

Jefferson pulled out the chair across from him, much more carefully than Alex had, and sat down, resting his elbows on the table. “Trust me, darlin’.” He leaned forward, intertwining his fingers. “I already think that. Nothing you tell me at this point could convince me that you aren’t.”

Alex rolled his eyes, but he knew he wasn’t as confident as he wanted to be. Should he even go through with this? He had sworn less than two weeks ago that he wouldn’t tell anyone (and especially not Jefferson) about his tail ever again. He had trusted John, and that decision had gotten him months of constant pain and exhaustion.

Alex shuddered. At least Alex had thought John had had good intentions. Jefferson, on the other hand… Jefferson would use anything against him, no matter how many lines it crossed. He wouldn’t care how many lines it crossed. The two of them didn’t really have boundaries in their arguments to begin with.

Another idea: could he lie? He could make up something about a water allergy, but that wasn’t common enough to be realistic, and he wouldn’t even be able to take showers at that point, so that was out of the question. A skin condition? No; those were usually pretty obvious. A phobia of water? Right. Now he was just grasping at straws.

“In case you weren’t aware, Hamilton, I don’t have unlimited time, and I would much rather be in bed right now than talking to you.” Jefferson tilted his chair back on two legs. “So, if you have something to say—”

“Just shut up already and let me talk,” Alex snapped.

Jefferson’s chair legs hit the ground with a dull thud, and he fell silent.

“I… I have a tail. A mermaid tail.” Alex took a shaky breath and rushed on before Jefferson could interrupt. It sounded stupid saying it out loud, even though he knew it was true, but he couldn’t really take it back now. “And it only transforms when I’m fully submerged in water, like a bath, or a pool, or the ocean.”

He took another breath. “But it’s painful. Like, a ten on the ‘on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain’ scale. So I, uh… I try not to do it unless I have to.”

That was a blatant lie, but Jefferson didn’t need to know that. He wouldn’t mention John, or how his ex-boyfriend (could he call John his ex?) would beg to see his tail all the time. Jefferson would undoubtedly criticize John for it, and then turn right around to critique Alex for trusting John in the first place. It was no secret that Jefferson didn’t get along with most of his friends, save for Lafayette, but Lafayette was the exception to many rules. Like the rule that Herc would only date girls, for instance. That had been an interesting realization process.

Jefferson was still silent, staring blankly at him from across the table, and Alex’s mind tore him in a million different directions. For all he knew, Jefferson would do the same thing as John, but this time, it would be just to see him in pain. Or Jefferson would laugh at him, call him crazy and send him to a therapist or something. Maybe spread the word about how Alexander Hamilton had finally gone insane, and how he had evidence to prove it.

“I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” Alex pushed his chair away from the table, stumbling in his haste to stand up. “I’ll just go—”

“No, I…” Jefferson lunged forward, reaching out to place a hand on Alex’s arm. “You’re serious?”

Alex froze. “I… Yeah.”

Jefferson sighed and stood up from the table. “No bath then, I guess,” he murmured. His hand slid off Alex’s arm. “Come on; you still need to clean up.”

Alex blinked. He could still feel the spot where Jefferson’s fingertips had made contact with his arm. The touch had been feather-light and surprisingly gentle. “You… you actually believe me?”

Jefferson gave him a half-shrug, grimacing slightly before he stretched his arms above his head. “I mean, there’s no reason not to,” he drawled. Alex heard a pop from his shoulders. “It’s not like I have any proof either way. And I’m too fucking exhausted to deal with it right now.”

Alex bit his lip. His teeth broke through the already fragile skin. “I… I can show you, if you want,” he mumbled. “I mean, it’ll hurt like hell, but—”

Jefferson shook his head. “Don’t.” He gestured for Alex to follow him as he walked out of the kitchen. “Come on. It’s almost midnight and you’re still covered in blood.”

Alex limped slowly after him. He was quickly reconsidering his previous assumptions regarding Thomas Jefferson’s desire to see him in pain.

When he entered the bathroom, Jefferson was already soaking a cloth under warm water, wringing it out over the sink before rubbing soap into it.

Alex stepped forward and reached for the cloth, but Jefferson held it out of his reach and gently shoved him to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet. “Let me.”

Alex huffed. “That’s what a mirror is for,” he grumbled, but didn’t move away when Jefferson began to dab at the cuts across his jaw. “You don’t need to do this, Jefferson.”

“Thomas.”

Alex stared at him. “What?”

Jefferson moved his other hand off the edge of the sink and slid it around the back of Alex’s head. His fingers curled into Alex’s hair, and he tilted Alex’s head back. He continued to press the cloth to Alex’s jaw, and kept his eyes on his hands.

“Call me Thomas,” he said. “I think we’ve reached that point by now.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, wincing as Jefferson pressed the cloth against his bruised skin. “Probably.”

They spent the rest of the time in silence. Alex sat as still as he could, resigned to letting Jefferson treat as many of his injuries as he could, and Jefferson muttered apologies when he brushed his fingers against yet another bruise or cut.

When Jefferson finally declared that they were done, Alex was close to falling asleep in the brightly lit bathroom, not even bothering to hold back yawns as his eyes slipped shut. Jefferson pulled him up, carefully avoiding Alex’s bruised knuckles, and guided him down the hall to his room.

“We’ll talk in the morning, yeah?” Jefferson said. “Try to get some sleep.”

Alex could only nod in response. He barely remembered changing into something more comfortable than jeans and a button down before he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep in seconds.

. . .

The next morning, it took him a moment to remember what had occurred the night before. When he did, it was because he had rubbed his eyes after turning on the bathroom lights and felt a jolt of pain through puffy, swollen tissue.

He cursed and jerked his hand away, blinking rapidly as the light assaulted his eyes. Once the spots had dissipated, his eyes flitted absently over his reflection in the mirror, and then he did a double-take, staring at his own face.

_Damn, that’s some good bruising._

He had known about the black eye; Jefferson had very helpfully pointed it out last night. A purplish smear covered the left side of his jaw, accompanied by a long, shallow scratch. He vaguely remembered getting hit in the face; the guy must have been wearing a ring. He tilted his head up at an angle, examining the discoloration of the skin. It didn’t look like anything a bit of makeup couldn’t cover. The black eye though… that would be a bit more difficult. Hopefully Washington would just write it off as another stupidly petty fight he had gotten into, admonish him for it, and not ask too many questions.

Now that he was standing in the bright, fluorescent lights of the bathroom, his hands looked pretty bad, too. The bruises across his knuckles looked darker, and he didn’t want to clench them in case the newly scabbed-over cuts decided to tear. Typing was going to be hell for a while.

He managed to pull his hair into a semi-neat ponytail, being more careful than usual with his bruised hands, changed into something that wasn’t an oversized shirt and shorts, and fumbled with his glasses before pushing them gently onto his face.

He glanced over his bruised hands once more and took a breath, turning to the door. Jefferson would come knocking soon enough, forcing him to eat something under the guise of “southern hospitality,” and Alex would rather have the inevitable conversation about his tail on his own terms, not Jefferson’s.

Sure enough, when Alex entered the kitchen, Jefferson was already sitting at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of tea in one hand, phone in the other. He didn’t look up when Alex entered the room, and Alex didn’t speak until he sat down in his usual chair.

“So, about last night.” It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t a query he was trying to find the answer to. It was straightforward and matter-of-fact. It was just a statement, and he knew where it needed to go. Neither of them had been drunk, or high, or overly-exhausted to the point where either of them might have forgotten the confession from the night before. He was going to have to talk about it.

Jefferson— _wait, no,_ Alex thought. _Thomas_ —took a breath, as if he was unsure where to start. He kept his gaze fixed on the table when he spoke. “Mermaids aren’t real.”

Alex bit his lip, but kept his eyes on Thomas. “That’s what I thought, too, at first. I figured I had dreamed it up.”

Thomas _(wow,_ it was bizarre calling him by his first name after so many years of surnames) was silent for a moment, still staring at the table.

“Okay, let’s say they’re real.”

He stood abruptly and strode out of the kitchen. Alex pushed his chair back and followed slowly. Did Thomas want him to follow? He followed him around all the time at the office if they were arguing, but this was Thomas’s house.

He followed anyway.

He entered the living room to see Jefferson running his fingers over the spines of books on one of the shelves before sliding one of the more ancient-looking ones off. He blew the dust from the cover, and the gilded writing on the spine flashed in the light, proclaiming the title of some folklore compilation. Thomas pressed it open and flipped through the pages.

 _“Mermaids are aquatic creatures with the head and upper body of a female human and the tail of a fish,”_ he read. Jefferson glanced up. “Last time I checked, you didn’t live exclusively underwater.” He ran his eyes down Alex’s body. “And you definitely don’t have a female torso.”

Alex was used to people checking him out, giving him a once-over and letting their gaze linger if they were interested, but Thomas Jefferson checking him out threw him off. Sure, they’d made jokes of it before, casting a critical eye over the other’s figure before making one offhand comment or another, and this was no different. It had never been in a sexual manner, or at least in a sexual manner that showed genuine interest. He was overthinking this.

Jefferson— _Thomas, fucking hell_ —was still staring at him expectantly. “Uh, no,” Alex muttered. “I do not.”

Jefferson snorted. “You sound unsure.” He turned a few more pages, and Alex craned his neck to see the diagrams printed in the book, scrawled in old-timey looking ink as if they were the original copies from some explorer’s personal journal. Jefferson ( _Thomas,_ his brain corrected unhelpfully) paused, running his finger along the tiny print beside one of the images, and then he looked up. “Do you think this’ll give us any helpful information?”

“No idea.” Alex stared at the diagram for another moment, a crudely inked sketch of a supposed mermaid with lines drawn from the various organs and muscles in the body and tail, and some scribbled words about their anatomy compared to a human’s. “I never tried to look anything up.”

“Fair enough.” Thomas gave him another once-over, his eyes lingering for a moment on Alex’s jaw. “You look like shit, by the way.”

Alex, although grateful for the change of subject, grimaced. “I know.” He ran his finger along the cut, pressing into the raised scab with his fingertips. “But you should see the other guy.”

“Yeah, sure.” Thomas closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf, talking over his shoulder as he walked back toward the kitchen. “You couldn’t win a fight even if the other guy was paid to lose.”

“Hey!”

Something had changed after last night; Alex could feel it. Their insults lost some of the biting sting they always carried and turned into something more like playful banter. It was weird.

And then two weeks turned into four, and it became normal, this thing that they had. Unconventional, sure, but normal nonetheless.

Alex had started reading more of the folklore book in his spare time. A lot of it seemed like fantasy bullshit, made up by paranoid sailors to explain the things they had no other explanation for, but when he wasn’t scoffing at the glorified, stereotypically feminine descriptions of mermaids, he actually found some of it helpful. There was one sentence in the History section that had caught his eye, and it was one of the only things in the book that he took as fact.

_"Mermaids are sometimes associated with perilous events such as floods, storms, shipwrecks, and drownings.”_

It seemed logical, at least in his situation. He considered the hurricane to be a perilous event, and it made sense that that had been the first time he had actually seen his tail. He hadn’t actually _caused_ any sort of perilous event—it seemed like mermaids and sirens were usually blamed for shipwrecks in mysterious waters, characterized as persuasive creatures without a conscience—but the book just said that mermaids were _associated_ with those events, not necessarily the direct cause of them.

Either way, it was something. It further enforced his opinion that the tail was more of a curse than a blessing, but at least he had some sort of an explanation as to why he was like this, why everything went wrong when it came to his tail, and why John had acted the way he had after a few transformations.

Alex still couldn’t help but wonder if Jefferson would be different.

. . .

“I can show you if you want.”

Thomas glanced up from the folklore book, his fingers lingering on the worn edges of the pages. Alexander was standing in the doorway, staring at him. “What?”

Alexander visibly swallowed, looking away. His hands were shaking slightly. “My tail,” he clarified, so softly that Thomas wasn’t sure for a moment if he had even said anything at all. “But just once,” he added harshly, and his eyes were focused on Thomas again, his jaw clenched. “Only once.”

“You said it hurts,” Thomas countered. He didn’t want to give a straight answer. It wasn’t his body. Why should he be the one to decide? “A lot.”

“Yeah, so?”

Thomas stared at him incredulously. “So why the hell would you want to go through that on purpose?” _And why are you offering to show me?_

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he thought he saw Alexander’s eyes widen slightly. “I… it doesn’t matter.”

_He doesn’t know._

“You don’t want to do this,” Thomas said. _Not for me, never for me._

“I want to.”

Thomas shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

“Just shut up and let me do this, okay?” Alexander was glaring now, and _there, that was the Hamilton he knew._ “I’m offering.”

 _But why?_ Thomas wondered, breaking Alexander’s piercing gaze and staring instead at the book in his lap. _Why are you offering?_

Alexander shouldn’t be offering. If his reluctance to talk about his tail (which was still a weird concept to think about) before Thomas had pushed him was any indication, why was he so insistent with this offer?

And why had he decided that the most important part of that offer was that it would only occur one time? Why had that remark been the one he emphasized the most? Was it some kind of requirement, like a person not being able to wish for more wishes when they rubbed a genie’s lamp? And besides, if it was as unbearably painful as Alexander made it sound, Thomas would never ask him to do it again. They might argue over every little thing, but seeing Alexander in pain had never been and would never be his end goal.

Alexander would never have trusted him this much before… before what? He hadn’t said anything about his tail until almost two weeks of staying at Thomas's house. And for that matter, why had he chosen Thomas of all people? He was friends with Mulligan and Lafayette, and he probably would have considered Aaron Burr before he ever considered Thomas. He obviously hadn’t wanted to talk to Laurens that night, a fact that Thomas had pondered over for hours before giving up. They had seemed so enamored with each other, so any problem big enough to send Alexander to him instead of anyone else had to be pretty bad, but it wasn’t Thomas's place to ask.

Why wasn’t Alexander going to Laurens? Had he even shown Laurens? As far as Thomas knew, they had dated. They were probably still dating. Something this intimate had to have been shared between them.

But again, it wasn’t his place to ask.

“Fine,” he assented, pushing himself out of the chair. “Come on.”

Alex blanched, stepped backward, and nearly tripped as his heel slid off the rug. “Now?”

Thomas slipped a piece of paper between the book’s pages, turning it over absently in his hands. “Sure, why not?” he decided. “If you’re so insistent about showing me, why don’t we do it now and get it over with? You’re nervous about it anyway.”

“I’m not nervous,” Alexander countered immediately. His hands weren’t shaking anymore, but his fingers were twisting the hem of his shirt into a wrinkled mess. Thomas chose not to comment as he walked toward the bathroom.

“So, uh…” Thomas gestured vaguely around the bathroom. “Do you need me to do anything?”

Alexander looked surprised that he had asked. Maybe it was because he had stuttered. “Oh, um…” He waved a hand at the bath tub. “Can you fill that?”

“Yeah.” Thomas set the book on the cabinet by the door and leaned down to pull the handle on the faucet. “Warm or cold?”

“Warm is fine.”

Thomas dropped the plug into the drain and held his hand under the flow of water until he was satisfied with the temperature. When he glanced up from the slowly filling bathtub, Alexander had started pulling his shirt over his head. Thomas's throat closed up, cutting off any words he might have tried to speak.

“Hamilton, what…”

Thomas swallowed and glanced around the room for something to look at besides Alexander. His gaze ended up on Alexander’s exposed back anyway. “What are you doing?”

Alexander dropped his shirt and spun around, his mouth opening and closing like a fish for a moment before he spoke.

“I… if I don’t take them off, they rip,” he stuttered. His ears were tinged pink, and the flush started creeping down his neck the longer Thomas stared at him. “What, you think it magically disappears when I get a tail and reappears with my legs?”

“It’s plausible,” Thomas drawled, trying to play it off as best he could even with the heat he could feel spreading across his face. “I didn’t believe mermaids even existed until two weeks ago.”

Alexander rolled his eyes and turned away again, pulling his shirt over his head in a single smooth motion. He let the thin fabric slide off his wrists, and although Thomas tried not to stare, he couldn’t help letting his eyes trace over the yellowish bruises from two weeks ago, mostly faded, but still visible against Alexander’s tan skin. He watched the way they moved with the muscles under Alexander’s skin before he realized what he was doing and tore his gaze away.

He kept his eyes averted until Alexander had wrapped a towel around his waist, which made it somewhat less awkward, but not by much.

“Do you think a massage would help?” he asked, watching Alexander hover awkwardly beside the full bathtub. “You know, since they relieve pain.”

Alexander shrugged, fingering the frayed edge of the towel. “I mean, you can try if you want.”

“You’re okay with… with me touching you?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Alexander tore a loose thread off the towel, wrapping it around his fingers. “Just… don’t ask me again or I’ll change my mind.”

“Okay,” Thomas said. “So... how does this work?”

“I get in the water, submerge my legs, and it changes, transforms, whatever,” Alexander said briskly. He stepped into the water and stared at the rippling surface.

“Last chance to back out,” Thomas said, pushing his sleeves up as he knelt down beside the tub.

“I told you that I’m doing this,” Alexander said. “Just…”

He inhaled and bit his lip. “It’s pretty terrible, but if the massage doesn’t work, I can deal with it.”

He lowered himself into the water, and Thomas placed his hands on top of the towel, pressing his fingertips hesitantly into Alexander’s upper thighs. He barely had time to dwell upon how weird the situation was before Alexander was screaming.

Thomas had heard Alexander scream at him all the time when they argued. It was what had gotten them banned from the office on multiple occasions as a result of the sheer volume and the expletives that eventually made their way into the insults. But this scream sounded different. It was filled with panic and pain in a way that Thomas couldn’t explain.

Every other thought was torn from Thomas's mind, and he froze for a moment before he leaned forward and pressed his hands more firmly into Alexander’s legs, digging into the tense muscles as Alexander gripped fistfuls of the soaked towel.

Beneath his fingers, he could feel something moving, shifting somehow. Not breaking; there weren’t any snaps or fissures that he could feel, but reorganizing and reconnecting into something longer. Through the thin towel, which kept floating up with the movement of the water, the smoothness of skin changed to something harder and slightly detached, but just as delicate.

Alexander had stopped thrashing, but he was still tense and breathing through his teeth, shallow, pained breaths that Thomas knew didn’t give him enough oxygen.

“You can move the towel now,” he said after a moment, still breathing heavily. He had let his head fall back to rest against the wall behind him, eyes still closed but no longer scrunched in pain.

Thomas carefully pulled the towel out of the water, wrung out the soaked fabric as much as he could, and tossed it into the sink, ignoring the water he sprayed across the floor as he took in Alexander’s tail.

A mixture of green and brown scales covered the tail, and flowing fins at the end fluttered just below the surface of the water. It glittered under the bright lights of the bathroom, flashing faintly colored dots across the walls and ceiling.

Even though Alexander had told him outright that he had a tail, it still felt surreal to see it in real life, under the white lights of his bathroom. It was something he had only ever read about in novels, something mystical depicted in art and movies and television shows, something that most people didn’t believe existed.

_It’s beautiful._

The words were on the tip of his tongue, and he was trying to swallow the dry shock in his throat when Alexander cut him off.

“I hate it,” Alexander whispered.

The words snapped Thomas out of his speechlessness. He looked up at Alexander’s face, but he was staring down at his tail. “What?”

“I hate it,” Alexander repeated, louder this time. He broke his intense staring contest with the water to meet Thomas’s eyes. “It’s painful, it’s unnatural, and people—”

He cut himself off and glanced back down at the water, licking his lips before he spoke again, carefully, as if he was taking great care in how he phrased his next sentence. “People might try to use it against me, or something.”

“Oh.”

Alexander glanced up at him, and Thomas looked away.

“What does it feel like?” he asked after a moment. “Is it like your legs are trapped inside?”

He didn’t know what questions were off limits at this point, but when had he ever cared about where the line was drawn? Lines didn’t matter between him and Hamilton _(Alexander,_ his brain insisted). They crossed them again and again, redrawing them at some point only to step so far over that they couldn’t see them when they eventually looked back.

Alexander shook his head. “It’s… fluid,” he said, glancing down. “It’s connected to my body, but it’s… one limb, not two.”

“Oh.”

Alexander didn’t break the silence after that, so Thomas let his thoughts drift elsewhere.

This was more intimate than sex. He wasn’t sure why that was the comparison his brain made, but it made sense. He’d massaged Alexander’s legs through a painful transition, and now they were sitting in the bathroom together, one of them half naked.

“So,” Thomas began, pushing any thoughts of sex from his mind. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad was it this time?”

“A six,” Alexander answered after a moment. He glanced up from where he had been studying the placid surface of the water. “Which is the best it’s been, ever.”

His voice was soft, almost embarrassed, and Thomas realized that there was a _thank you_ hidden between the lines.

Thomas swallowed. “That’s good.”

_You’re welcome._

Another awkward silence. Thomas wanted to keep the conversation going, but he didn’t know what else to say. He never knew what should or shouldn’t be mentioned when someone shared anything relatively personal with him.

“Can I… can I touch it?” he asked, gazing at the shimmering scales for a second before he shook himself out of it and leaned back. “Shit, sorry. It’s not my place to ask.”

“Thomas Jefferson? Apologizing? To me?” Alexander grinned, stretching his arms out above his head. “I never thought I’d see the day. You can if you want, though.”

He shifted slightly, sloshing water over the sides of the tub, and Thomas leaned away from the wet floor. “It won’t hurt me or anything.”

Thomas pulled himself back toward the tub, placing a hand on the side as he reached slowly into the water. He didn’t know why he was so hesitant. Alexander had said it wouldn’t hurt him.

When his fingers touched Alexander’s tail, he nearly jerked back in surprise. It was kind of like touching a fish, but less slimy. More solid, like the sequins sewn in neat lines on the dresses his sisters had worn to prom. He ran his fingertips in the direction the scales laid, like he would with a dog’s fur, and brought his hand back to the top before running his fingers down the length again.

“You know, _The Little Mermaid_ was my favorite movie when I was a kid.”

Thomas didn’t know what made him say it. Talking was one way to make the awkwardness disappear, he figured, but why he had immediately gone to a children’s movie, he had no idea.

Alexander raised an eyebrow. “Are you comparing me to Ariel?”

“No, I just—”

“You are.” Alexander flipped his damp hair dramatically and grinned. Thomas noticed with a start that he had fangs, which only served to make the smile look more feral than friendly.

“I totally have the female torso, don’t I?” He ran his hands down his sides, twisted wrists with his palms out. “You would know, with your amazing observational skills the other day. And I would definitely rock the seashell bra.”

“You would not,” Thomas said, running his fingers absently over Alexander’s tail. “And what observational skills are you talking about?”

Surely Alexander hadn’t caught the genuine interest in his gaze when Thomas had glanced over his body the other day? It had been an unconscious motion after he had read the description printed in the book, but _damn,_ Hamilton was actually attractive.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Alexander glanced down into the water, where Thomas's fingers were still placed along his scales. “You were checking me out.”

Shit, he had noticed. Denial it was, then. “I was not.”

Alexander smirked. “Sure.” He flicked the end of his tail out of the water, sending tiny drops of water flying into the air. “Your bathtub is nice, by the way. I can actually move.” He flicked his tail again, sending more raindrops cascading over himself and Thomas.

“Stop, stop!” Thomas pushed himself away from the tub, water dripping from his fingers as he skidded backward. “You’ll ruin my hair!”

Alexander cackled, flicking his tail in Thomas's direction. “Good. It doesn’t look that great anyway.”

Thomas dodged the droplets of water that flew across the room. “You have no idea how long it takes to get it to look like this.”

He snatched the folklore book from on top of the cabinet beside the door and held it out like a shield. “Now quit it, or you’ll ruin my book.”

They lapsed into silence, Alexander sitting in the water and Thomas on the floor. Thomas stared blankly at the book in his hands.

Alexander was just saying things to get a reaction. They made sexually charged comments about each other all the time, mostly as insults.

 _No._ Always as insults. They didn’t mean anything.

He focused his wandering mind back on his book, glancing over at Alexander between reading paragraphs of the tiny print across the pages. He didn’t want to stare. It felt insensitive, but it wasn’t every day that you had a mermaid in your bathroom.

He finished the section about myths and glanced at his watch. It had been at least thirty minutes since they’d come in here, and the water was probably getting cold.

“Do you want to get out?” he asked, placing the book back on top of the cabinet. “We’ve been in here for a while.”

Alexander stared blankly into the tub, dots of green light dancing across his cheekbones. The hesitancy in his eyes said that he would rather do anything other than get out of the water.

“You can just drain the water,” he muttered. “I can handle the rest of it by myself.”

“I don’t want to leave you to deal with that pain by yourself,” Thomas countered. “Let me help you.”

It had been alarming, watching Alexander’s face contort in pain as he went through the transformation. Thomas didn’t want to watch that again, but it wasn’t his choice. He didn’t even know how to describe what had happened to Alexander’s legs. Granted, he hadn’t been able to see most of Alexander’s lower body, but as his legs had turned to a tail, Thomas had felt the bones shift beneath his fingers, elongating and rearranging to fit their new shape.

Alexander’s eyes widened. “You actually care.”

_Yes._

“Fuck off,” he said instead. He shifted back onto his knees, his legs pressing painfully against the tile floor. “Do you want me here or not?”

“Fine.”

Thomas plunged his hand into the water and twisted the plug out of the drain, dropping it onto the floor with an echoing clang. Alexander’s fingers gripped the edge of the bathtub, white knuckles and locked joints becoming more prominent as the water dropped lower and lower. They were slightly webbed, Thomas noticed, with nearly transparent skin dipping gracefully between his spread fingers.

“After the water’s gone, how long does it take before… before it transforms back?” Thomas asked.

“A second,” Alexander said quickly, barely waiting for the end of Thomas's sentence. His eyes were already screwed shut, and his breathing had quickened. “Maybe two. I don’t know. It’s not very long.”

“Okay,” Thomas said, shifting his weight as he knelt awkwardly beside the tub. The tiles were digging into his knees, but if Alexander could deal with his fucking _bones_ shifting, Thomas could deal with a few indents in his skin.

“Can… can you get a towel again?” Alexander asked. “Just… just to cover for when it’s… when my legs—”

Thomas reached backward, fumbling with the cabinet door for a moment before he grabbed the first towel he could reach. He turned back and threw it over Alex’s glimmering scales. The corners of the towel darkened as they soaked up the puddles of water lingering in the bottom of the tub. Thomas placed his hands carefully over it, where he imagined Alexander’s thighs would be when his tail disappeared.

 _One,_ he counted silently. _Two. Three._

Three seconds.

He could tell Alexander was trying to hold back his cries of pain, clenching his jaw hard enough that Thomas could hear his teeth grinding together, but he failed after just a few seconds, letting out a high-pitched cry as he dropped his head back against the wall. Thomas pressed his fingers down, grimacing as he felt Alexander’s bones shifting again, and whispered nonsense words of comfort until he could no longer feel movement beneath his fingers.

Alexander’s grip on the towel slackened, and Thomas slowly released the tension in his fingers. He reached up to brush Alexander’s damp hair back from his face, tucking the dark locks behind Alexander’s ear as he whispered for Alexander to breathe.

Alexander opened his eyes after a moment, and Thomas withdrew his hand, pulling back into his own personal space. They stared at each other for a moment before Alexander spoke.

“Can you leave?”

Thomas leaned back on his heels “Are you sure you don’t want—”

“Yes.” Alexander pulled the damp towel closer to his waist. “Get out.”

Thomas pushed himself up from the floor, wincing as his knees popped audibly, and picked up his book from the cabinet. He closed the door as he left, but lingered outside for a moment, waiting to see if Alexander needed him at all. When he didn’t hear anything from the other side of the door, he wandered back to the living room, settled down on the couch, and opened the folklore book to the last page he had read.

_“Mermaids, similarly to Sirens, have sharp fangs. Although they do not normally use them to kill other creatures, they will sometimes use them to mark their mate, claiming someone—mermaid or human—as their own.”_

The door to the bathroom opened, and Thomas glanced up, expecting to see Alexander walking through the doorway. Instead, he heard Alexander’s bedroom door slam shut. He waited for Alexander to come back out, maybe join him on the couch to read more of the book together. A minute passed, then two, and the bedroom door stayed shut.

Thomas stared blankly at the book for several minutes, letting the words blur together with the tiny sketches crammed in the margins before he realized that he wasn’t actually reading anything.

Alexander probably just wanted to deal with whatever after effects came with the horrific-looking transformation. Thomas had broken bones before, and the pain from that had not been pretty. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how much residual pain came from having your bones shift unnaturally within your body.

He had already decided that he never wanted to witness Alexander’s transformation again. If Alexander offered, he would say no, a thousand times over. It was horrific to watch someone go through that much pain, and it was even more unsettling to feel it beneath his fingers. He had been seconds away from pulling his hands away when he felt Alexander’s bones shift, when he’d felt the scales forming beneath his fingers, but he hadn’t. He didn’t know if Alexander had ever had anyone help him through that torturous transformation before, but he wasn’t about to pull away when he was the only one there, no matter how uncomfortable it was for him.

Because for Alexander, it must have been a hundred times worse.

. . .

When Thomas got up the next morning, Alexander wasn’t sitting in the kitchen like he usually was, with a coffee mug in front of him and a book propped open against it. The kitchen was dark, and there weren’t any dishes in the sink to indicate that Alexander had eaten anything.

 _He probably slept in,_ Thomas mused, going through the motions of making coffee as he pushed loose curls back from his face. _With what he went through last night, he’s got to be tired._

He turned on the coffee maker and set two mugs on the counter before turning back toward the hallway. When he reached Alexander’s door, he knocked quietly before he turned the handle and entered the dark room.

Alexander wasn’t there, and neither was his laptop. A spot of orange caught Thomas's eye as he glanced around the room, bright against the dark colors of the bedspread. A bottle of ibuprofen lay on the mattress, dropped carelessly on its side. It was partially empty, missing about a third of the contents. It was probably Alexander’s; the only pain medicine Thomas kept around was specifically for his migraines.

He turned from the room and closed the door gently. So Alexander was avoiding him. That was fine. At least Thomas didn’t have to pretend that he wasn’t hurt by Alexander’s silence when Alexander wasn’t around to see it.

One morning wasn’t that bad. They’d inevitably run into each other at work, or one of them would start some petty argument that wasn’t really an argument. It was probably just some lingering embarrassment from last night.

But one morning turned into an entire day. Alexander didn’t come to his office for anything, not to argue with him over cases, not to give him stupid advice on organization, not to pettily insult him, nothing.

Thomas's secretary came into his office near the end of the day, holding a stack of files that she placed on his desk.

“Mister Hamilton left these for you, sir.”

Thomas glanced up from the document he had been reviewing. “Just left them? Did he leave?”

She nodded, taking the completed documents he had left on the edge of his desk. “He said he didn’t need to discuss any of it with you.”

Thomas sifted through the stack of files. Most of the documents had bright post-it notes attached to them, pointing out lines for signatures and giving Thomas notes on what he needed to do on the files.

“All right,” he said, setting the files down. “Thank you.”

He rubbed his eyes and began sorting, methodically peeling off the post-its and piling them into a small mountain on the corner of his desk.

It was fine. Alexander probably needed time to process. Thomas would just talk to him tomorrow.

But Alexander avoided him the next day. And the day after that. A day turned into a week, and every morning, Thomas walked into the kitchen to find it dark and empty. Alexander obviously hadn’t eaten breakfast or even made coffee before walking out the door, leaving long before Thomas had even entertained the thought of getting out of bed. In the evenings, Thomas returned to a seemingly empty house, Alexander’s presence betrayed only by a thin strip of light peeking out from under his door.

At work, he barely saw Alexander, even after making a point to take the long way back to his office in order to pass Alexander’s. Usually, he only did that when he wanted to continue whatever stupid argument they had started hours earlier, but now he was actually worried.

On the eighth day of Alexander’s calculated avoidances, Thomas was standing in James’ office, running through one of the new cases before the strategy meeting Washington had scheduled that afternoon. He happened to glance over just as Alexander passed by James’ office, sifting through several files as he walked.

He didn’t realize he had gotten up until James spoke.

“Thomas, where are you going?”

He waved a hand distractedly at his friend, barely glancing back. “One second, James.”

Thomas stepped halfway out of James’ office, leaning easily against the doorway.

“Hey, Hamilton—”

Alexander barely turned around. “Fuck off, Jefferson. I’m busy.”

Thomas was tempted to push himself off the doorway, catch up to Alexander, and stand in front of him, literally block his path and force Alexander to talk to him, but he didn’t. Instead, he closed James’ door and walked back to his chair.

James stared at him as he sat back down. “What was that about?”

Thomas shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Now, what were you saying about the deposition?”

Alexander had started avoiding dinner as well. Half the time, he wouldn’t even walk in the door until Thomas had given up waiting and gone to bed, and the other half of the time, he would lock himself in his room and refuse to come to the table.

Thomas still tried though. Every night, without fail, he walked down the hallway and knocked on the closed door.

“Dinner’s ready,” he called, not expecting a response. “Come eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Thomas sighed. “Alexander—”

“Fuck off, Jefferson. I said I’m not hungry.”

So they were officially back to last names. Wonderful.

Thomas waited outside the door for a few seconds before he gave up and walked back to the kitchen, resigning himself to another night of eating alone. The only comfort he got was that the leftovers always disappeared from the fridge, so at least he knew Alexander wasn’t starving himself.

Thomas respected Alexander’s space. It was relatively easy, seeing how Alexander was putting in an absurd amount of effort to avoid him. He respected it for a week, pretending as best he could that it didn’t hurt. One week turned into two, and he dealt with it, throwing back half-hearted insults when Alexander decided to start an argument. Their arguments had changed again; Alexander’s quips felt too closed off, like he was trying to avoid being in Thomas’s presence for longer than necessary.

Pushing someone wasn’t the way to get them to talk about something they were obviously avoiding. Thomas had learned that the hard way with his younger siblings. But there was a point when he could tell that something was actually wrong, and there was also a point when he couldn’t stand being ignored.

So when Thomas heard Alexander’s door open when he was cooking dinner, a full week after Alexander had shown him his tail, he decided it was time to figure out what the hell was going on.

Thomas turned away from the counter as Alexander entered the kitchen.

“Will you set the table?” he asked. Testing the waters. “I’m almost done.”

Alexander didn’t pause, didn’t even acknowledge that Thomas had spoken to him. He walked past the table and snatched a book off the counter before turning around to walk back out.

Thomas reached out as Alexander walked past the counter and grabbed his wrist. It wasn’t rough, just enough to make him pause and turn around, but Alexander ripped his arm out of Thomas's grasp as if he had been burned. The book fell to the floor with a dull thud.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Alexander snapped. The words were clipped, but his voice wavered.

Thomas set down the spoon he had been using and took the few steps he needed to stand toe-to-toe with Alexander, placing his hand against the wall between Alexander’s shoulder and the doorway. “Then don’t walk away from me.”

Alexander flinched away from the spot where Thomas's hand hit the wall, and his eyes widened slightly.

“What do you want?” he asked, his gaze flickering quickly away from Thomas’s face.

“You can’t… you can’t show me something like that and then act like nothing happened,” Thomas blurted, trying to get his thoughts in order. “You don’t get to go back to throwing insults just because you feel like it.”

“I can, and I will, Jefferson,” he spat. “And you don’t get to ask to see it again just because you’re curious. When I said you could only see it once, that wasn’t an invitation for you to ask.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Thomas growled. “I just want you to talk to me, Hamilton. You’ve been ignoring me for a week and I have no idea why.”

Thomas had plenty of guesses, but none of them seemed to add up correctly. As much as he wanted to attribute it to petty games, he couldn’t. Alexander had seemed to trust him, seemed to _actually_ trust him, and then everything had done a one-eighty in the span of an hour.

“Since when do we talk?” Hamilton shifted against the wall, pressing himself into it. “And could you move your fucking arm?” he hissed. “It’s in my way.”

“I said it before and I’ll say it again,” Thomas began evenly. “We talk because you came to me months ago and decided you were going to live in my house without giving me a very good explanation.”

Thomas pulled his arm away from the wall and took a step back. “And now you’ve decided to show me your tail, insisted that you wanted to even when I told you you didn’t have to, and that’s the kind of thing that warrants more than a one-and-done discussion.”

Alexander was still pressed against the wall, but he had relaxed slightly when Thomas stepped back. He didn’t know why Alexander was so skittish, but it didn’t matter. If he didn’t want to talk about it, he shouldn’t have volunteered to get in the water. He’d made his decision and now he had to live with it, no matter how awkward the conversation might be.

“Why can’t you trust me?” Thomas asked. “Why can’t you just trust me, Hamilton, and not assume that I’m doing something for my own gain? Why can’t you trust that I’m not doing something to hurt you?”

Alexander wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s not… I don’t…”

“Because I’m me,” Thomas cut in. “Because I am who I am, and we fought for so many years, and you can’t believe that I would change this quickly.” He took another step back. “I get it, Hamilton.”

“I just thought you’d ask me to do it again because you thought it was pretty,” Alexander whispered. “I saw it in your eyes, how much you liked it. It looked like—”

“And what, exactly, did you see?” Thomas hissed. “Because the pain you went through when you fucking _offered_ to show me your tail was horrific. I don’t want to see that again.” He took a step forward and met Alexander’s gaze. “And I would _never_ ask you to show me your tail knowing that that’s what I’d have to watch every single time.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Some of the fire had returned to Alexander’s eyes, and he stepped away from the wall. “I just—”

“Assumed,” Thomas cut in. “You assumed, Hamilton, and you were wrong.”

Hamilton seemed to deflate. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Thomas snapped. He turned back to the counter and picked up his spoon. “Now, go set the table. The food is getting cold.”

“I just—”

“We’re done with this discussion,” Thomas interrupted. “Go set the table.”

For once, Alexander didn’t protest. The only sound in the kitchen was the clinking of glassware as he pulled it from the cabinets, and Thomas barely looked at him as he set dishes on the table.

They ate in silence, the only words exchanged being requests for table items. When they finished, Alexander went to his room, and Thomas cleared the table.

He wanted to talk about the fact that Alexander had ignored him for a week. He wanted to ask what the end of Alexander’s explanation would have been if he hadn’t cut him off, and he desperately wanted to know why Alexander had pulled away so sharply after Thomas had grabbed his wrist. But he couldn’t ask to have that conversation now. Sure, he’d been the one to try to have an actual discussion about it, but he had also ended it when Alexander had tried to apologize. He was as much at fault as Hamilton now; he couldn’t ask about what would have been said when he had been the one to cut it off.

Over the next few weeks, their stilted silences eventually fell back into polite chatter and then into the slightly less biting insults they had worked their way to before, but it wasn’t the same. It had carefully smoothed over their argument, but Thomas could still feel that it was still there, somewhere just below the surface. He wondered if Alexander could feel that too.

But they didn’t talk about it again.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back!
> 
> This section takes up over half the doc for this fic.
> 
> And now, an ending.

Thomas hadn’t been to lunch with James in… a while. This was the first time in at least a month, mainly because he had spent most of his lunch breaks tracking down Alexander and trying to get him to talk. And on the rare occasions that he’d found Alexander, he’d spent his lunch breaks sitting alone after Alexander had cursed him out and stalked away. After all that abuse, a quiet corner in an artisan café with James seemed like heaven.

“So,” James started, twisting his fork into his salad. “What’s with you and Hamilton?”

Thomas shrugged. “Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Thomas smoothed his napkin across his lap. “Why?”

James tipped his head. “You guys were fighting all the time, turning Washington’s hair gray on a daily basis, and then suddenly you’re being kind of civil,” James said. “I might even say you were being _nice._ And then you were trying to be nice while Hamilton was telling you to fuck off, and now you’re back to being almost civil again.”

Thomas slid his drink across the table. “Okay,” he said slowly. He lifted the glass to his mouth. “So we’re being civil. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Is this some on-again, off-again thing?”

Thomas choked. “What?” He set down his glass and coughed into his elbow, reaching blindly for a napkin. His throat still burned. “We’re not together.”

James snorted and threw another napkin at Thomas's face. “The sexual tension would beg to differ.”

“Okay, first off, there is no sexual tension,” Thomas snapped, wiping his nose. “And second, he and Laurens are…” He waved his hand vaguely in the air. “Dating, or something, so it would never happen even if there was _‘sexual tension.’”_

“So you admit that you like him.”

Thomas threw his napkin onto the table. _“No.”_ He pushed his plate aside and leaned forward. “He and Laurens are… something. Complicated. Because whenever Laurens comes up in conversation, Alexander changes the subject. And Laurens doesn’t come around the office anymore.”

Thomas paused, expecting another comment from James, but James was staring at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Alexander?” James said. Thomas could see him trying to fight the smile that was creeping up on his face. “Since when do you call him Alexander?”

“Shut up,” Thomas muttered. “He said I could. It’s just habit. Anyway, they’re fighting or something, and I don’t think they’ve been talking, but I think Alex— Hamilton wants to get back together.”

“And how, exactly, do you know all this?” James asked around a forkful of lettuce.

“He’s been staying with me,” Thomas said. “He showed up at my door a month ago and refused to let me call Laurens.”

“But why did he choose you, of all people?” James asked. “Doesn’t he have other friends?”

Thomas shrugged. “Probably. But we kinda had a fight the other day, so—”

“You and Hamilton? Fighting?” James cut in. “That’s pretty normal, Thomas.”

“Not now! We haven’t actually fought like… the insults have been... different,” he finished lamely. “You know what, forget it. This conversation is over.”

James shook his head. “Whatever you say.”

Thomas huffed and snatched his fork off the table.

James was wrong. He wasn’t in love with Hamilton.

. . .

Alex stared at the blue envelope he had been holding for the past ten minutes, turning it over and over in his hands. One side had his name written on it in Lafayette’s looping script, and the other side was torn from where he had reluctantly ripped it open.

He had to admit that it was classy.

Laf had actually come into his office that morning, and ended up delivering the invitation to Alex’s secretary. Thankfully, he hadn’t wanted to question Alex about why he and John weren’t living together anymore.

Would John be there? Alex hadn’t spoken to his friends about what had happened between himself and John. If anything, he assumed they would have taken John’s side, given that he had probably told them about the letter and how Alex had just walked out in the middle of the night. Since Laf had given him an invitation, he figured everything might be okay, but knowing Laf, he would invite both him and John and try to get them back together with some elaborate scheme.

Alex was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Thomas settling into the chair beside the sofa until he spoke.

“Is that from Laf?”

Alex’s head snapped up. Thomas jerked his chin toward the invitation Alex had almost crushed in his grip. “He sent me one too.”

“Oh.” Alex released his death grip on the invitation, smoothing out the crumpled edges. His thoughts from moments before settled back into his head, and he absently voiced them aloud. “I wonder if John will be there.”

“You sound worried,” Thomas muttered. He glanced up from his book after a second, confusion written across his face. “Aren’t you two dating?”

Alex opened his mouth. “I…”

Were they dating? Technically, he had intended the letter as a breakup, but did a letter even count? John was still texting him, but Alex had ignored the intermittent bursts of messages, swiping them away almost as soon as they flashed across his notification bar.

“It’s... complicated,” he said slowly, folding the torn envelope the invitation had come in into increasingly smaller squares.

Thomas snorted, glancing back at his book. “With you, everything is complicated.” He flipped another page, smoothing his finger down the edge. “What happened between the two of you, anyway?”

Alex shook his head, even though Thomas wasn’t looking at him. “It’s not important.”

Thomas didn’t glance up from his book again. “Okay.”

Alex stared at Thomas, watching his eyes flit across the words on the page, and turned back to the invitation in his hands.

Why Thomas had cared to ask in the first place, Alex didn’t know. Did Thomas actually care? Or was he just pitying him because of the pain from the transformation? Alex wasn’t sure if he wanted to know which one would be worse if it was true.

Alex had avoided Thomas for a week after he’d shown him his tail. It had been wonderful, having someone actually care about him, actually consider that he might want someone to be there when he went through the transformation. He’d let himself get caught up in that feeling for just a little too long, and it had all come crashing back down when he realized just how similar it was to his beginning with John, how similar it was to the vulnerability he had shown back then.

He didn’t want to be vulnerable at all. He hated showing the kind of vulnerability he had when he’d shown Thomas his tail, when he’d broken down and revealed the pain he went through and just how little he was able to deal with it. That kind of vulnerability, that kind of trust, was a weakness that could be exploited. He never wanted to be that vulnerable again, especially not in the way he had been with John. That had led to too much trust, too much delusion, and too much pain.

When Thomas had grabbed his wrist in the kitchen, Alex had shut down. Thomas's grip hadn’t been anywhere near painful or constricting, but it had dragged him back to that night in the hallway so fast that he had just… reacted. He’d felt guilty for snapping as soon as he saw the concern in Thomas's eyes, but he couldn’t show that vulnerability. Not again.

He hadn’t brought it up afterwards, either. He’d wanted to. He’d wanted to ask Thomas what he thought, wanted to let Thomas care about him the way he seemed to have been starting to. But he was scared that it would end up going the same way as it had with John.

“Do you want to read more of this?”

Thomas's voice tore Alex from his thoughts, and he glanced over. Thomas held the worn folklore book in his hand, the gilded spine flashing faintly in the light.

Alex shrugged. “Sure.”

Thomas pushed himself up from his chair, and Alex moved over to make space on the couch. “What do you want to read?” Thomas asked, shoving the worn book in Alex’s direction.

Alex glanced at the table of contents, scanning the intricately slanted writing. _Anatomy. Apparent Sightings. Humans and Mermaids. History. Mermaids and Sirens. Other Facts. World Myths._

“Other facts, I guess,” Alex said after a moment. Thomas began flipping through the cracked pages. “That seems pretty broad.”

Thomas settled on a page and pressed the book open in his hands. Alex craned his neck to read along as Thomas read out loud.

_“There are tales of humans who were able to transform into mermaids, although the conditions conducive to their transformations are unknown. It is said that these half-mermaids were sexually inclined beings when in their mermaid form, but when in their human form, were unable to recall anything that occurred after the transition.”_

Thomas paused in reading the tiny print aloud. “Is that you?” he asked, smirking slightly. “I’d love to have seen what that was like.”

Alex was still reading.

_Oftentimes, humans were interested in engaging in sexual activities with the mermaid, but were unable to due to anatomical reasons. When the mermaid transformed back to its human physicality, all sexual inclinations vanished, although some narratives recount violent tales of rape and sexual abuse after the half-mermaid failed to follow through with the apparent desires of its creature side._

_There are no official records of any humans who were able to transform into mermaids, so it is unknown to what extent these rumors are true._

On the opposite page, there was a sketch of two people, one with their legs still half-transformed into a flowing tail at their ankles who was being pinned to a bed. Both were unclothed, and it was clear from the fearful expression on the half-mermaid’s face that the actions depicted in the image were not consensual.

What if that had been him? If the sexual impulses had been part of his transformation, what else would have happened with John? And would it technically have been rape? If he, in his mermaid form, had led John into believing he wanted to have sex, and then forgotten about it completely once he transformed back, would it technically have been rape if John had done anything after that? Alex wanted to be able to say that John would never have gone so far as to force him to have sex, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“Alexander?”

Thomas's hands were on his shoulders, twisting Alex to face him. “Hamilton, what—”

Something in Thomas's face changed when their eyes met, and his expression shifted back to the weirdly clouded one from that day in the office, a slight frown marring his lips. His grip slackened, and Alex felt the air in the room change, from tense to something calmer.

“Hey, if that went too far, I’m—”

Alex shook his head, tearing his eyes away from the book.

“I’m just tired,” he interrupted. He swallowed hard. “Just tired.”

Thomas was still frowning, but he shifted his gaze away from Alex and back to the book. His eyes flicked over the words, and Alex knew when he focused on the picture. He looked away before Thomas could ask if that had happened to him. He didn’t want to think about what he would feel like now if it had.

After a moment, the book shut with a harsh snap, and Alex startled.

“I think that’s enough for tonight.”

“No, you can keep reading,” Alex protested, though it was half-hearted. “I’m not that tired.”

“I have to get up early tomorrow anyway,” Thomas said. “And unlike you, I can’t drink copious amounts of coffee to stay awake. It’ll give me a migraine.”

He pushed himself up from beside Alex, and walked over to the bookshelf, reaching up to the cramped shelf at the top and pushing the book between two others with the tips of his fingers.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Put it lower,” he demanded. “I can’t reach it if it’s up there.”

“Exactly.” Thomas turned back toward him, smirking slightly. “Can’t have you reading it without me and finishing it first, can I? Might as well put it somewhere too high for you to reach.”

As much as Alex wanted that stupid smirk to disappear, he was glad he wasn’t getting questioned about his reaction to the book. “I could reach it if I really wanted to,” he muttered, staring at the book, cloaked in shadows at the edge of the shelf. He could, but he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to read any more about what could have happened to him, what his mind could have locked away. “And fuck off, I’m not that short.”

“You really are.” Thomas crossed back to the couch and held out his hands. Alex stared at them skeptically for a moment before he placed his palms in Thomas's, and he found himself being pulled off the sofa and onto the floor.

Alex gripped the warm hands wrapped around his own as he regained his balance, and then they slipped away to be replaced by cold air.

“See?” Thomas placed a hand on top of his head. “Tiny.”

Alex ducked out from beneath his arm. “Oh, shut up.”

They bickered over height differences the entire way down the hall, only pausing when they reached Alex’s door.

Thomas shifted his weight, glancing down at the floor before meeting Alex’s eyes again. “Good night, Alexander.”

“Night,” he whispered back, his gaze focused on Thomas's slight smile. It looked more worried than happy, and it seemed like Thomas wanted to say something else, but he was already pulling the door shut before Alex could analyze it further.

In the dimly lit room, the lightheartedness of their conversation began to dissipate, leaving Alex with his unsettling thoughts and a cold feeling in his chest. The dark blue walls of the guest room didn’t seem so calming anymore. They reminded him too much of the ocean, of all the things that could have happened if the circumstances surrounding his tail had been different. When he turned off the lights, the blue turned to black. Black. Like the sketches inked in the book.

Alex didn’t sleep well that night. All he could see when he closed his eyes was the drawing from the book, the partial tail extending from the ankles and the look of fear immortalized across the victim’s face, as if the image of the mermaid was burned into his eyelids.

. . .

Lafayette had decorated nicely. Everything was minimal, but pretty all the same, and pale lights had been strung across the yard, glowing brighter as the sun dipped below the horizon and casting a shimmering glow onto the surface of the water in the pool.

Alex had remained glued to Thomas's side since they’d arrived, making a conscious effort to avoid John. He’d seen him talking to other people across the yard, but he kept his gaze elsewhere in case John looked over and saw him staring.

He had caught Laf glancing at him and Thomas from across the yard a few times, a slight frown etched across his features, although he always seemed to be looking away as soon as Alex caught his eye. He looked rather suspicious, or maybe angry. Alex couldn’t decide which.

He figured it was because Laf had talked to John, and John had told them about Alex walking out, about how Alex was a freak because of his tail, about Alex’s reluctance to do the things John had asked him to do.

It made sense. Alex hadn’t talked to his friends for months. They had to get the story from someone, and John was the only other person who knew what had happened. He could twist it however he wanted, and the others would take it as the truth.

Besides, Alex was the one who hadn’t been able to handle a bit of pain for the person who loved him the most. He deserved whatever anger Laf held toward him.

“Don’t look now, but Laurens is coming over.”

Thomas's voice was close to his ear, his breath whispering across Alex’s neck, and Alex whipped around to look in the direction Thomas was staring. John was walking toward them, having apparently abandoned his conversation with Herc in favor of walking to where Alex was standing with Thomas.

“So subtle,” Thomas muttered, turning away. “I’ll let you talk.”

Alex felt the color drain from his face. “Wait, Thomas—”

He was half-tempted to sprint after him, but Laf had roped Thomas into a conversation, and Alex knew from experience that it wouldn’t end anytime soon. He looked around quickly in a last-ditch attempt to find someone else to talk to, but John had already crossed the yard, pausing a few feet away. Alex focused his gaze on the concrete, suddenly wishing that he had sucked up his pride and explained to someone what had happened between himself and John so he wouldn’t have to be in this situation.

Should he say something? His eyes flitted up quickly; John was clearly there to talk to him. He didn’t really have another choice.

He took a breath. “John, I’m—”

“You’re sorry. You said that already. ”

Alex’s eyes snapped up to meet John’s. His voice was ice cold, and the sunshine smile was nowhere to be seen.

“A letter, Alex?” John crossed his arms over his chest. “You walked out in the middle of the night and all you left was a fucking letter that didn’t explain anything.”

“I couldn’t figure out what to say, John! I didn’t—”

John cut him off again. “What was that part about trust?” He laughed, forced and cold and broken. “That was bullshit, Alex. You couldn’t even trust me enough to tell me what was wrong.”

Alex stepped forward. “John, it’s not that—”

“No!” John stepped forward as well. “You trusted me with your tail, why couldn’t you fucking trust me with something else?”

Alex glanced over his shoulder. John was talking so loud. Who else could hear? Who was going to judge him for what he had done to John? And who would judge him if they found out he was part mystical creature that wasn’t supposed to exist?

John grabbed his arm, so reminiscent of that night in the hallway, and Alex flinched, yanking his arm back as John spoke.

“Afraid someone’s going to judge you for what you did to me?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. His voice had shifted to something darker that Alex couldn’t name, and he stepped back again, as close as he could get to the edge of the pool without stepping in. “You should be.”

“No, John, I—”

John stepped closer, reaching out to grab Alex’s shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You couldn’t even let me see your tail one last time before you left.”

Alex stared into the brown eyes he had once known so well, the ones that had once shone with worry at his pain, and then he looked away. “John, it’s my body. You don’t get to decide—”

“I want to see it, Alex.” John reached out to grip Alex’s other shoulder, turning him forcefully so they were face to face. His eyes were dark again, like that night in the hallway. “Why can’t you just give me this?”

John shifted his hands, and Alex wondered for a second whether he was about to get punched before John’s palms were against his shoulders, shoving him hard.

Alex stumbled backward, scraping his heels on the concrete as he fell. He waited for the impact, expecting a bruising jolt where his tailbone would hit the sidewalk, but it never came. Instead, chlorinated water stung at his eyes and pressed against his chest, burning his lungs as he instinctively inhaled and promptly choked when what filled his lungs wasn’t air.

All he could see was water, and tiny dots of gold dancing above him from the lights strung across the yard, bright against the dark sky. He barely had time to comprehend what had just happened before blinding pain set his nerves on fire, and he screwed his eyes shut. He could barely move.

When he managed to open his eyes, the water seemed darker, grains of sand floating slowly through the crashing waves. Torn leaves swirled by him, splintered wood sank into the depths, and he could just make out a sliver of sparkling glass a few feet below. Or was it jewelry? He couldn’t really tell.

Alex reached out to grab whatever it was. He felt a sudden, sharp pain and flinched back, squinting through the dark water. The sparkling thing was still there.

Had he missed it? He must have, and the pain had been the glass cutting into his skin. He reached out for it again, and this time he grabbed it. There was another flash of pain as he pulled it toward him, but when he glanced down, it was still there, floating and shimmering a few feet beneath him.

He reached for it twice more, feeling the same spikes of pain before he had the mind to see what exactly it was he had grabbed.

Alex stared at the thing pinched between his fingers. A green-tinted scale, flecked at the end with a bit of torn flesh and blood. It was familiar. He’d seen these colors before. He glanced down again, trying to see a fish, or whatever this scale had come from.

Oh. It had come from him. He had a tail. He had been aware of this though; somehow, he knew this wasn’t the first time he was seeing it. And he had torn off some of his own scales.

 _So they do come off,_ he thought, turning the thin, shining object over in his hand. _Interesting._

He ignored the rest of the shimmering scales and the dull, throbbing pain as he floated mindlessly through the crashing waves far above, the single bloodied scale pinched tightly between his fingers.

_Her clothes spread wide, / And mermaid-like awhile they bore her up_

_But long it could not be / Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, / Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay / To muddy death._

. . .

“So you and Alexander are… what exactly?” Lafayette asked him, having cornered Thomas almost the moment he had walked away from Laurens and Alexander. He wasn’t looking at Thomas, instead focusing on the table of drinks, as if he was trying to appear uninterested in the conversation at hand.

“Um…” Was Lafayette expecting a certain answer to that question? “Nothing?”

Lafayette turned away from the drinks to stare directly at Thomas. “You know that he walked out on John, do you not? And that he also left a letter breaking up with him?”

Thomas knew that the surprise he felt was painted clearly across his face as soon as Lafayette’s stare turned intense and searching. “I didn’t, actually,” he said, turning away, trying to wipe his emotions off his face. “But I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

Why hadn’t Alexander told Thomas that he’d broken up with Laurens? He’d asked outright whether the two of them were dating, and all he’d gotten was an _it’s complicated._ Wasn’t that the sort of thing you told people when they asked?

Then again, why did it matter? They weren’t exactly enemies anymore, but Thomas wasn’t sure if they were friends, either. The most Alexander had trusted him with was his tail, and they hadn’t even talked about that since the week after it happened.

“Well, you two seem… how do you say—”

The rest of Lafayette’s sentence was cut off by a resounding splash off to Thomas's right, and he absently turned to see which idiot had decided to cannonball into the pool fully clothed.

Burr was staring at Laurens, who was standing at the edge of the pool. The youngest Schuyler (Margarita? Thomas wasn’t sure; he had never really talked to her) looked confused. Mulligan was peering into the water in disbelief. Eliza and Angelica were still absorbed in whatever conversation they were having with Angelica’s boyfriend, and Alexander appeared to be the only one missing.

Thomas snorted, turning back to finish his conversation with Lafayette. He should have expected Hamilton to do something stupid for laughs.

He was about to ask Lafayette to repeat what he had said about himself and Alexander. The words were on his lips when he realized that Alexander wouldn’t jump into a pool fully clothed. Alexander wouldn’t willingly jump into water at all.

He took a step past Lafayette, placing a hand absently on his friend’s shoulder as he brushed past him.

“Thomas, what—”

Thomas's mind was spinning as he walked across the yard, his strides getting longer with each step.

Why was Alexander in the water? Not by his own choice, surely? He’d shouted at Thomas for even suggesting he take a bath; why would he jump into a pool in front of a dozen people?

Laurens was still standing at the edge of the pool, staring into the water. Why he hadn’t jumped into the water after Alexander, Thomas had no idea.

“Get out of the way,” he growled.

He caught sight of Laurens’ face as he shoved him aside, a mixture of anger and surprise showing through the constellations of freckles scattered across his cheekbones.

Thomas didn’t think twice before he leaped into the water, only remembering that he was fully clothed when his shirt plastered itself uncomfortably to his skin.

By the time Thomas scooped Alexander up in his arms, the tail was fully formed and Alexander was gasping with residual pain. He made no effort to hold himself up, and the fins at the end of his tail swished gently with the movement of the water, limp and unmoving, so unlike the day when he had been flicking water over the both of them in the bathroom.

Thomas silently thanked whatever genetics had made him as tall as he was. He wouldn’t have been able to hold Alexander at all if he’d had to tread water as well.

Water trickled down his face, dripping into his eyes, and he shook his soaked hair off his forehead as best he could.

_Water being flicked at his face. “Stop! You’ll ruin my hair!”_

His hair didn’t matter. Hair could be fixed.

Thomas glanced down, blinking water out of his eyes. “Alexander?”

Alexander shifted to look up at him. His breath came in shallow gasps, and his eyes were dark and wild.

“Mine,” he snarled, so low that the word sounded more like a feral snarl than an actual word. Alexander twisted forward in his arms and sank his fangs into Thomas's collarbone, breaking the skin with a harsh, stabbing pain before he leaned back again, breathing heavily.

Thomas gasped, well aware of blood welling from the punctures, warm against his wet skin, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. He wouldn’t die from it, most likely, but Alexander must be out of his mind with pain to react like that.

“One to ten?” Thomas murmured, shifting Alexander slightly in his arms to better accommodate the length of the tail extending from his hips. Was it longer than his actual legs? Thomas couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just the flowing fins that made it seem longer than it was.

“Ten,” Alexander whispered after a moment. Thomas glanced down. Alexander’s eyes were glazed over, dull and unfocused. The darkness in them had dissipated. His breathing was even shallower than before, and he was shaking hard.

Thomas drew Alexander closer to his chest, taking slow steps through the water. He could feel water dripping from his probably ruined hair onto his shoulders and down his neck, but he ignored it just as he ignored the whispers from the others, keeping his eyes on the man in his arms.

Alexander’s tail really was beautiful. Gorgeous brown scales that melted into a murky, bottle green, bits of both colors streaking the tailfins. He hadn’t been able to say it the first time, having been preoccupied with all the other thoughts running through his head and interrupted by Alexander’s explanation of his hatred of his tail. If it weren’t so painful, he was sure Alexander would think it was beautiful too.

His eyes fell upon a few small streaks of red dotting between the shimmering, earthy colors, and it took him a second to realize that it was blood, staining the torn skin where scales were missing.

The sight of blood wasn’t something that usually made his stomach turn, but as he stared at the dots of red, harsh and biting against the mellow greens and browns of Alexander’s tail, Thomas's heart dropped to his stomach.

“We’re gonna get out now, darlin’,” he murmured, swallowing hard as he tore his gaze away from Alexander’s tail. “I won’t drop you.”

He reached the stairs at the corner of the pool and carefully stepped up onto the first one, trying not to jostle Alexander while he found his footing.

 _One,_ he counted silently, stepping up onto the dry concrete at the top of the stairs. He knelt down and laid Alexander gently on the ground, ignoring the gasps from the people closest to him.

_Two._

He snatched the first towel he could reach, throwing it across Alexander’s lower body to shield the tail from the stares he knew were there. The colorful fabric didn’t quite cover the entire length, and Thomas prayed that the delicate fins at the end didn’t tear on the concrete when Alexander shifted.

_Three._

He placed his hands on top of the towel, making sure not to touch the places where scales had been torn off. The feeling of the scales beneath the fabric instead of skin was just as odd as last time, but the thought had barely crossed his mind before the sound of Alexander’s choked cries filled the air.

It was just as terrible watching the transformation a second time, if not worse. He wanted to touch Alexander’s face, calm him down somehow, assure him that it would be over soon, but all the words that crossed his mind felt cold and empty and meaningless.

He would never know the true extent of the pain Alexander was experiencing. He would never feel it himself, but he could try to guess how bad it was. He could watch Alexander’s head drop back against his neck and remember how he had said the pain was a ten on the pain scale. He could watch Alexander dig his nails into his palms, reopening the scars that looked like they’d been torn open again and again, and wonder what else he’d gone through to make his hands look like that. He could watch the green scales disappear and be replaced with smooth skin, and think about what it must feel like to have something so superficially beautiful be so excruciatingly painful, but the only pain he would experience would be watching Alexander go through something a hundred times worse and not being able to do anything about it.

So he pressed his hands to Alexander’s legs and tried not to cry as Alexander writhed beside him.

It felt disrespectful to have so many people watching something so personal and so private. The fact that so many of Alexander’s friends were there and not stepping up to help angered him. When he glanced up, Laurens was at the edge of the group, watching with a relatively blank expression aside from his wide eyes. Thomas tore his gaze from Laurens’ face and turned back to Alexander.

He realized too late that he hadn’t asked consent this time, hadn’t asked Alexander if it was okay to touch him like this. He didn’t know how much it would even help, since he hadn’t done anything before the first transition, but as Alexander’s bones shifted beneath his fingers, he figured it was probably better than nothing at all.

Thomas pressed harder with his fingers, hoping that the pressure would alleviate some of Alexander’s pain, or at least distract him enough so that it wasn’t the only thing he was focusing on.

The towel had slipped at some point during the transition, exposing Alexander’s legs just below the knees. Thomas pushed it back to cover as much of Alexander’s skin as he could. From what he could see, none of the wounds from the torn scales had transferred from the tail to Alexander’s legs.

He wondered why that small fact gave him so much comfort when Alexander was still in so much pain.

In front of him, Alexander gasped for breath, his eyes still screwed shut. His fingers scratched at the concrete, searching for something to grab onto before they found the towel and gripped hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He whined quietly, clenching his jaw as he shifted his legs against the pavement.

“Breathe,” Thomas murmured, smoothing his hands along the towel. “It’ll be okay.”

Alexander inhaled shakily once, twice. His fingers uncurled slowly from around the towel. As his breathing slowed, he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as they adjusted to the brightness of the hanging lights in the yard against the inky darkness of the sky. His gaze flickered down to Thomas's neck, confusion clouding those pained eyes for a moment before they widened in understanding.

“I hurt you,” he whispered after what seemed like an eternity of silence, his eyes still focused on Thomas's neck. His voice was weak and raspy. “I bit you. Shit, I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean—”

Thomas glanced down and brushed his fingers over the pulsing mark. They came away bloody.

It wasn’t that bad, really. He’d put a band-aid over it and it would be fine. So why was Alexander so worried about it?

He shook his head. “Let’s get you cleaned up, all right?” Alex’s gaze flickered back up to his face. “Can you walk?”

Alexander glanced down and shifted his legs slightly before he grimaced, shaking his head. “Probably not.”

Thomas pushed himself into a half-kneeling position. “I can carry you again, if you want.”

“No.” Alexander wrapped the towel clumsily around his waist and pushed himself forward. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes were clouded. “I’m fine.”

 _That’s a lie._ Thomas reached out to place his hands against Alexander’s back as he tried to stand. “Are you sure?”

Alexander’s gaze turned defiant, covering most of the pain behind his eyes when he jerked away. “Yes.”

Thomas held up his hands. “Okay. Fine.”

Did Alexander not want his friends to see Thomas touching him? As far as he knew, everyone still thought they hated each other, so maybe that was it. Or did he just not want Thomas to touch him at all? Had he done something wrong, pulling him out of the water and massaging his legs without permission? They hadn’t talked about the first time, or if it was okay to do again. But to be fair, Thomas hadn’t thought he would have to do it again.

Alexander walked slowly toward the door, and Thomas followed. He wasn’t sure why. Alexander clearly didn’t want him there, but Thomas caught up quickly and walked beside him anyway.

When Alexander collapsed into him the moment they stepped through the door, Thomas caught him. He was still shaking. Thomas had no idea how he had even made it this far. He shifted so his arm was wrapped around Alexander’s waist, supporting most of his weight, and as he did so, he realized why Alexander had refused his help before.

He didn’t want to be seen as weak.

Thomas knew they were both dripping water across Lafayette’s floors as he guided Alexander to one of the guest bedrooms, but he didn’t particularly care. Water could be cleaned up.

“What happened?” he asked, bending over so Alexander didn’t fall as he sat down on the bed. “Did you fall in?”

“John shoved me,” he whispered, kneading the heels of his hands into his thighs.

“Oh.”

It had been a joke then. Nothing purposeful.

He turned to the closet on the other side of the room, pushing open the doors and rifling through the hanging clothes. Dry clothes sounded nice, and there had to be something in here that fit both of them.

“Your tail is beautiful, by the way,” Thomas murmured, against his better judgement, as he turned around and crossed the room, pressing a clean, dry shirt into Alexander’s trembling hands. Was that something he was allowed to say? Did it really matter? He turned to the dresser. “I forgot to mention it the first time.”

He spent a moment rifling through the drawers of the dresser, coming up with two pairs of sweatpants. He glanced absently at the top when he straightened. A few pictures stood neatly in frames, ones of Lafayette and Mulligan and Alexander and Laurens, a few of the Schuylers, one of himself and Laf in France. Hair clips and bobby pins were scattered across the surface, and a small bottle of ibuprofen rested near the edge. Thomas picked it up and turned back to the bed.

Alexander was still holding the shirt, twisting the fabric around his fingers. The action made him seem smaller somehow. “I… if you want, I can show it to you more. I can just get in the bath and it’ll transform.” He took a quick breath. “You can see it whenever you want, and I can even do it a couple times a day. And I’m used to it because—”

He sounded hesitant; scared and unsure, and Thomas was already shaking his head. “No, it’s clearly painful for you, I’ve seen it twice now. And I don’t have any right—”

Alexander ignored him. “—I did it for John.”

Thomas's words caught in his throat. “What?”

Alexander looked away. “He asked, and… I mean…” He shrugged. “Yeah, it’s painful, and I’ll be exhausted, but if it makes you happy then I’ll do it.”

“No, you said you were used to it.” Thomas thought back to a few months before, remembering how pained and pale Alexander had looked every day when he came into the office, how he stopped coming in early and started leaving at a normal hour. He glanced at the bottle in his hand, his gaze focusing on the bright pills inside. “That’s why you were taking so many pills that day.”

Surprise replaced the discomfort on Alexander’s face. “I… yeah.”

Thomas found himself stumbling sideways, and he caught his balance on the bedpost.

“I’m sorry,” he managed. “For the jokes I made, for the stupid comments. I didn’t—”

“Obviously,” Alex cut in harshly. And then, softer; “I didn’t want you to know.” He glanced away, pressing his fingers into his thighs. “It’s fine.”

They were silent for a moment, and then Alexander reached forward to press something small and hard into Thomas's hand.

“Here.”

Thomas glanced down. A green scale sat in his palm, bright against his skin. A bit of torn skin hung off the end, stained red with blood. The thought that Alexander had torn it off his own body nauseated him, and the thought that Alexander had been in enough pain to tear off more than one made it a hundred times worse.

“Alexander, I can’t—”

“Keep it,” Alexander whispered. “Please.”

His voice was pleading, almost desperate. Thomas stared at the scale for another second before closing his hand around it. The glittering green disappeared beneath his fingers. “Okay.”

The scale meant something larger, that much he knew. But what were the implications? Exactly how much did it mean?

He shook his head slightly, and drops of water fell into his eyes. He was still sopping wet, and was probably soaking the blankets he was sitting on.

“I’m gonna go change, all right?” He stood and crossed to the door before turning back to glance at Alexander. “You should too. Don’t want you to catch a cold.”

_It’d be hell if you were sick on top with the pain you’re dealing with._

“You would have loved that a few months ago,” Alexander said, a slight grin crossing his pale face. “You’d have thought it hilarious if I caught a cold after falling into a pool.”

“Yeah, well…” Thomas turned away, uncurling his fingers slightly to glance at the scale sitting innocently in his palm. “Things change.”

He closed the bedroom door behind him and began unbuttoning his wet shirt as he walked down the hallway, slipping it off as he entered the bathroom.

So it hadn’t been a joke. Laurens had seen Alexander’s tail before, had known how much pain it caused, and had shoved him into the pool anyway. And Lafayette had mentioned that Alex walked out and broke up with Laurens through a letter. So had the push been the result of Laurens’ anger? Jealousy?

Jealousy didn’t make sense. Who would he be jealous of?

He set the scale on the counter and worked his soaked pants off his legs before dropping them into the pile with the shirt.

If it hadn’t been jealousy, then it had to be anger. Anger, Thomas figured as he pulled the dry shirt over his head, as a result of Alexander’s apparent breakup with Laurens through a letter. With the limited knowledge he had about the situation, that was the only plausible explanation.

He slipped the scale into the pocket of the sweatpants, picked up his pile of soaked clothes, and walked back to the bedroom.

He wasn’t going to ask Alexander about getting shoved into the pool. He’d been through enough tonight. If he wanted to share, fine, but Thomas wasn’t going to push him.

He knocked twice on the bedroom door, and Alexander’s voice came from the other side.

“You can come in.”

Alexander had changed into the dry clothes. They were slightly too large on him, dwarfing his already slight frame. It looked like he had tried to comb his hair, but it still hung limply around his face, like he hadn’t been able to get his fingers to cooperate. His legs were bare, with only the too-large shirt covering his hips. The sweatpants lay abandoned on the edge of the bed.

“Couldn’t stand up,” Alexander muttered, following Thomas's gaze to the sweatpants. “It hurt too much.”

Thomas nodded, tossing his sodden clothes into the basket by the doorway. “Do you want me to comb your hair?”

Alexander shrugged. “If you want.”

Thomas settled onto the bed, and Alexander turned to face the opposite wall, wincing as he drew his legs up onto the bed. Thomas worked his fingers gently into Alexander’s tangled hair, torn between wanting to confront Laurens and comfort Alexander, both of which led to too many thoughts of why he wanted to do either.

He felt like all this overthinking and protectiveness might be too much, but he was worried. And worry implied care.

Did he care for Alexander?

Thomas refocused his wandering gaze on his hands, which had mindlessly started creating a braid down Alexander’s neck, muscle memory taking over from all the times he had helped his sisters with their hair before they’d learned to do it themselves.

He did.

. . .

Alex stared down at his aching legs, resisting the urge to dig his fingers into the trembling muscles. His hands hurt, too, from where his nails had bitten into his palms, and putting any more force on them would probably reopen the cuts again.

Thomas had braided his hair nicely. It was better than what Alex had tried to do himself, with his shaking hands. Thomas's hands in his hair had been gentle and comforting, distracting him from the stabbing pain in his legs.

“Hey, ah…”

Thomas's voice broke the silence, and Alex looked up at him.

“I don’t know if it’ll help, but I can try… I mean, do you want me to…” Thomas swallowed. “I can give you a massage again?”

He glanced away, and Alex paused.

“Um… okay,” he said slowly. “I don’t know if it’ll work because nothing ever really has, but you can try if you want.”

Thomas nodded, and shifted to kneel on the bed, hands hovering over Alex’s thighs. “Is this okay?”

Alex nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell me if it hurts, all right?”

“Yeah.”

Thomas's fingers pressed firmly into his twinging muscles, and Alex exhaled sharply, pressing his heels into the mattress. Thomas withdrew his hands and glanced up at him, ready to ask if he was okay, but Alex cut him off. “Don’t stop. That feels amazing.”

Thomas nodded, pressing his fingers back down, and Alex tried not to move. He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of his muscles loosening.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask before I did this earlier,” Thomas said. Alex felt his hands pause for a moment, fingers digging into his legs. “I just… I thought it would help.”

“It’s fine.” Alex opened his eyes. Thomas wasn’t looking at him, and he closed them again.

Was this what it was supposed to be like, having someone care for you? Thomas had outright rejected his offer to show him his tail more often because it would cause him pain. John hadn’t cared about that after a while. If Thomas had accepted, would things have gone the same way they did with John? Or would Thomas actually care, and help him through it like he was doing now?

Thomas seemed to actually care. He’d jumped into the pool after him, and he hadn’t made a big deal about the bite Alex had graced him with in return. And now here he was, massaging Alex’s legs to try to relieve some of the pain even though his efforts would probably be for nothing.

And although he had sworn he never would, Alex found himself trusting Thomas Jefferson. He didn’t know if he was even ready for any sort of deeper level of trust again. After all, look where it had gotten him with John. But Thomas seemed different. He seemed like he actually cared. His fingers against Alex’s tail in the bath so many weeks ago had been gentle and reverent, hesitant to the point where Alex had to resist the urge to tell him that it wouldn’t hurt if he touched more. Then again, John had been that way in the beginning, too, so Alex was back at square one.

There was a quiet knock at the door, and Alex opened his eyes in time to see Laf walk into the room, closing the door as he smiled carefully at Alex. His gaze wandered across him and Thomas sitting on the bed, and Alex caught the moment his eyes widened considerably when he caught sight of Thomas's fingers against Alex’s bare legs.

“Désolé. Would you like me to leave?”

Thomas shook his head, keeping his hands on Alex’s thighs. “No, Gil, it’s not like that.”

Alex froze. _Not like what?_

Lafayette fixed his eyes on Alex, and he didn’t have time to dwell over Thomas's words. “So was that real? Did I see _une queue?”_

“Yeah.” Alex figured there wasn’t any point in denying it now. Better on his terms than on John’s. “Yeah, you did.”

_“Mon dieu.”_

Laf was silent for a moment, staring blankly in disbelief. “The others… we do not think that it is weird, Alexander. They want to tell you this.”

“Look, Laf, I’d rather not talk about it right now,” he said. He fixed his gaze on Thomas's hands, which were still resting on his legs, absently rubbing gentle shapes into his hips. “Later, okay?”

“Yes, of course mon ami. We will not pressure you.” Laf backed toward the doorway. “Get some rest, yes?”

Laf closed the door behind him, and they were left in silence.

“So what are we?” Alex blurted after a second. He couldn’t stand not knowing what Thomas meant, couldn’t stand guessing and trying to figure it out for himself. “Because I trust you a lot even though I swore I never would, and it kind of seems like we’re…”

He glanced up at Thomas and then back down to the sheets. “You know, together? But you just told Laf that it’s not like that.”

The words weren’t right. His thoughts were too scattered, but he let them fall from his lips anyway. “But did you mean that we weren’t… you know, having sex when he walked in, or did you mean that we’re not together?” He took a breath and kept talking before Thomas could respond to either of the questions. “And that mark, it…”

He reached up to brush his fingers fleetingly across his own collarbone, and Thomas mirrored the motion, letting his fingers trace over the raised marks from Alex’s fangs.

“It’s usually used for… when a mermaid claims a partner,” Alex whispered. He dropped his hand and looked away. “At least, that’s what the book said. I don’t know if you read that part.”

He twisted his fingers together roughly, listening to his knuckles crack in the silence. “But you didn’t consent to it, so if you don’t want to… you know, be that, then I understand.” He bit his lip hard, tasting blood. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, look at me.”

Thomas's thumbs rubbed circles into his aching thighs, and Alex took one breath, two breaths, before he looked up.

“You were in pain, you lashed out. It’s fine.” Thomas smiled gently at him, leaning back on his heels and retracting his hands from Alex’s legs as he pushed himself off the bed. Alex almost wished he would put them back. “Now you should get some sleep.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

He watched Thomas cross the room. He paused in the doorway and turned back to look at Alex.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Thomas said. “Sleep well.”

He closed the door behind him, and Alexander stared at the unmoving wood for a moment before adjusting himself on the bed.

Something rattled when he shifted, and he glanced down to see the bottle of bright ibuprofen Thomas had picked up off the dresser resting against his leg. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, watching the pills tumble around inside. He pressed on the cap and managed to twist it open with his shaking fingers, pouring a few capsules into his palm.

“Hey old friend, he muttered. “Long time no see, huh?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped the pills onto his tongue, swallowing them dry. He’d probably collapse before he made it to the kitchen for a glass of water.

It had been stupid, he realized, to think he would never need to take them again. There were some things that couldn’t be avoided. There were some things that never went away.

He set the offending orange bottle on the nightstand and pushed back the blankets on the bed, managing to maneuver under the sheet without jostling his legs.

It was only when he was wrapped in Lafayette’s soft blankets, trying to ignore the pain in his hips, that he realized that Thomas had never answered his question.

. . .

Thomas nearly ran into the door on his way out of the bedroom the following morning.

He cursed and rubbed his heavy eyes. He hadn’t slept well at all, kept up by his ceaseless thoughts and the nightmares that crept into his head and forced his eyes open as he floated between sleep and wakefulness. Every single one had centered around Alexander, and Thomas had wanted to walk down the hall to check on him, but what implications would that have brought?

He had also been half-expecting Alexander’s friends to corner him at some point and grill him about their apparent closeness, but none of them had. They either hadn’t noticed, didn’t care, or had been told off by Lafayette and actually listened for once.

The hallway beside the kitchen was brightly lit by the sun shining in through the tall windows and glass doors that led out into the yard. The motionless surface of the pool looked serene in the morning sunlight, and he shuddered. He couldn’t forget how, last night, it had seemed more like the unforgiving waves of the ocean.

When he finally tore his gaze away from the shimmering surface of the water and glanced into the kitchen, he was surprised to see Alexander leaning against the counter, pulling the hair tie out of his hair and combing his partially undone braid out with his fingers.

Thomas cleared his throat and walked around the breakfast bar.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Did you sleep okay?”

Alexander nodded and slid the hair tie over his wrist, twisting it a few times as he let the silence linger. Thomas paused for a moment before he spoke again.

“Are you okay?”

It felt awkward for him to ask that now, in the sunny kitchen. All the confidence from last night had disappeared with the morning light.

“Yeah.” Alexander took a step toward the stools lined up against the breakfast bar and stumbled, his legs collapsing underneath him. Thomas lunged forward to wrap an arm around his waist and prayed that they both didn’t end up on the floor.

 _Why can’t you just fucking accept that you need help?_ He caught his balance on the edge of the counter. _Why do you always have to insist that you’re fine? I’m not going to judge you if you’re not._

He wouldn’t say any of that, of course. He’d let Alexander pretend he was fine and protect his pride until he decided he couldn’t anymore.

“You sure?” he asked instead, pulling his arm from around Alexander’s waist after he was sure they were no longer in danger of falling.

Alexander gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself before he glanced up.

“No,” he amended quietly. “I’m not.”

Thomas watched as he heaved himself onto one of the stools, wincing slightly. “It’s just… I’m used to taking care of myself, you know? Because John…”

He glanced at his hands and then stared at the counter. “John would leave afterward,” he finished. His gaze snapped to Thomas. “And I’d always end up taking ibuprofen or something and dealing with it.”

Thomas opened his mouth, but Alexander kept talking, waving his hands around as he did.

“And then you offered to stay, and I let you, and I couldn’t deal with it,” he finished. “Not very well, at least. And no one had ever seen that… that vulnerability. So I freaked out, and I ignored you for a week.” He inhaled, wrapping the hair tie around his fingers, stretching it out and twisting it up. “And yeah,” he finished. “That’s… yeah.”

Thomas took a hesitant step forward and stretched his hand out to touch Alexander’s shoulder, but he curled his fingers back after a second, unsure if his touch would be welcomed. “Alexander, it’s not—’

Alexander glanced back up. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s not… it’s my fault, not yours.”

Thomas wanted to tell him that it wasn’t, but he couldn’t find the words. Alexander _had_ been the one to ignore him for a week, refusing to even come to the table to eat, and there wasn’t a single excuse Thomas could think of that Alexander wouldn’t shoot down immediately.

But Alexander clearly didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He’d turned away to look at the windows that faced the yard, and Thomas had a feeling he was reliving the previous night as well.

“Tea or coffee?” Thomas asked, finally gathering the courage to break the silence.

Alexander shrugged, still staring blankly out into the yard. “Doesn’t matter.”

Thomas turned back to the counter, busying himself with the tea kettle on the stove and finding where Lafayette stored his mugs. His friend had too many damn cabinets.

“I’m sorry.”

Thomas paused in his quest for mugs and glanced over at Alexander. “For what?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “If it’s because of what you just told me, you don’t have to—”

“I was just being stupid last night. What I said...” Alexander shook his head slightly, staring at the counter. “It was stupid.”

“Darlin’, a lot of things you say are stupid,” Thomas said, dismissing the comment with an easy smirk as he turned to face Lafayette’s extensive collection of tea. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“We’re not together,” Alexander muttered. “You wouldn’t want to be tied to me just because I marked you. And besides...” He paused and took a breath. “It’s just some stupid lore from a book.”

He sounded beyond dejected, and Thomas paused, his hands on two different boxes of tea. “I told you that I’m not mad,” he said carefully. “It really doesn’t matter.”

Why was Alexander putting himself down? Every comment he’d made toward himself this morning had been negative, and every word sounded like he meant it. Was he fishing for compliments? Thomas hadn’t thought that he cared about what people thought of him. Maybe he’d been wrong

Alexander sighed, and Thomas heard the hair tie snap against his wrist again. “I know, but that still doesn’t mean…”

He paused again, taking several breaths before he spoke. “Never mind.”

Thomas put down the boxes he had been comparing, turning to face Alexander. He was focused fully on the conversation now. “Doesn’t mean what?”

Alexander glared at him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, twisting his hair tie around his fingers again. “Forget it.”

“It’s obviously important,” Thomas drawled, leaning back against the counter. “C’mon, what is it?”

“You don’t get it,” Alexander mumbled. “If you haven’t figured it out by now—”

“What don’t I get?” Thomas cut in. “I’m not going to stand here all day trying to decode your stupid riddles, Hamilton.”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Alexander asked. When Thomas didn’t answer, he sighed, turning his body to face the breakfast bar. Closed off, protected.

“You not being mad,” he began, speaking each word slowly and carefully. “Doesn’t mean you want to be with me.”

Thomas didn’t know how much time passed between the end of Alexander’s sentence and the beginning of his own, but the words were out of his mouth before he could think twice.

“Who says it doesn’t?”

When he looked up, Alexander was staring at him, but as soon as their eyes met he tore his gaze away and shook his head hard.

“Don’t,” he said. “I… don’t.”

Thomas took a step away from the counter, and Alexander scrambled off his chair, stumbling backward and falling into the edge of the breakfast bar as he shook his head.

“Don’t play around,” he said. “Please.”

Thomas took another step. “I’m not,” he said. “Will you just—”

Alexander backed away even further, still refusing to look up. He ran into the edge of the counter, and Thomas took the chance to reach out and grab at his wrist.

“Hey,” Thomas said. “Will you just look at me?”

Finally, Alexander looked up at him, his head moving so quickly that it was more of a jerk than a smooth movement. Thomas took one more step to close the distance, releasing Alexander’s wrist as he moved his hand up to place it against his jaw.

He didn’t move, didn’t touch anything other than the smooth skin of Alexander’s face. He was already overstepping, he knew. That line had been crossed back when he’d spoken without thinking only moments ago, or maybe when he’d offered to stay after the first transformation; he wasn’t actually sure when he’d started caring. But the next step he took would send him beyond the point of no return.

“I’m not playing around,” he whispered, and leaned down to press his lips to Alexander’s.

Alexander still tasted like chlorine from the pool, and his lips were rough and swollen from where he’d obviously been biting them all morning. He barely paused before he pressed into the kiss, giving just as much as he was taking.

Thomas wanted to run his hand through Alexander’s hair, shift their positions, do _something_ to deepen the kiss, but he didn’t want to ruin this moment. He was about to say _screw it_ and bring his other hand up to Alexander’s waist when someone else’s voice broke the silence.

“What the hell?”

Alexander jumped away at the voice, and even though they hadn’t been touching much to begin with, Thomas felt his absence even before he opened his eyes.

Laurens and Mulligan were standing in the doorway. Mulligan seemed surprised, but he returned Thomas's gaze evenly when their eyes met. Laurens looked pissed, and stalked around the breakfast bar to lean into Alexander’s personal space.

“So you’re with Jefferson now?” he hissed. “Is that why you left? Because you’re fucking him? Is that it?”

His voice was ice cold. He spat Thomas's name as if it were poison in his mouth, but all the venom was directed at Alexander.

Mulligan stepped toward Laurens, obviously trying to diffuse whatever this was before it could go as far as it had last night. “John—”

“No!” Laurens snapped to face Mulligan, his loose curls whipping around with him. “He left, Herc. He left in the middle of the night, and broke up with me through a fucking letter.” He turned back to Alexander. “You’re a fucking coward.”

“I know.”

Thomas wasn’t sure if Mulligan and Laurens had heard Alexander speak, but he had, and he wanted to punch Laurens for turning the fiery, passionate Alexander Hamilton into a fragile someone who agreed with insults that were hurled at him. But this wasn’t his fight. The only thing he knew was that Alexander had broken up with Laurens through a letter.

Mulligan placed a hand on Laurens’ shoulder before Thomas could step forward and shove him out of Alexander’s face. “John, I think you should leave.”

Laurens shrugged Mulligan’s hand off his shoulder and turned to fix his furious gaze on him instead. “Yeah, sure. Side with him, why don’t you?”

“John—”

Laurens shook his head and turned away. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

Thomas watched as Alexander’s gaze followed Laurens’ retreating form before focusing back on Mulligan. He had trapped his lip between his teeth again, and his eyes had flickered down to focus on the floor.

“Herc, I… I don’t want you to think that… that I...”

Alexander stumbled over each of the words, rushing through the syllables and tripping over his thoughts as he tried to explain himself in a situation where, in Thomas's opinion, he shouldn’t have to. He didn’t even know the full story of what the hell had happened between Laurens and Alexander that resulted in the chaos of the night before, but he was ready to bet that it hadn’t been Alexander’s fault.

Thomas stepped forward, ready to cut in and defend Alexander, but Mulligan held up a hand.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” Mulligan said. His voice was gentle. “Whatever you did, you did it for a reason.”

He left the room with a smile over his shoulder, and Thomas was almost sure he caught a small nod of acknowledgement in his direction.

“So…” Alex turned to him once Mulligan was out of sight, fidgeting with the hair tie on his wrist. He’d stretched it so much that it had worn thin and looked close to snapping. “Are you sure you don’t want to see my tail?” He bit his lip and looked even further down at the floor. “Because you can if you want.”

Thomas pressed his fingers gently under Alexander’s chin, forcing him to look up.

“You’re not a creature on display,” he murmured. “Why are you asking again?”

He brushed a dot of blood from Alexander’s lip, not really expecting an answer. It reminded him of the cuts on Alexander’s tail and he shivered, pushing the image out of his head as he smeared the blood from his fingers.

“I meant it when I said no,” he finished.

When he glanced up, Alexander was staring at him with wide eyes. He had started chewing on his lip, and Thomas wanted to kiss him again to make him stop tearing at the swollen flesh, but he didn’t know if the action would be appreciated or even appropriate at the moment.

What the hell had Alexander gone through with Laurens to make him react this way to a simple statement? What had Laurens forced him to do that a simple _no_ was so profound?

Thomas turned back to the counter.

“So, why did you leave Laurens a letter?” he asked, busying himself with the tea boxes again. “I mean, you seem like the type of person who would break up with someone face to face.”

When he glanced back, Alexander had drawn blood from the reopened cut on his lip.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said immediately. He was apologizing a lot lately. “It’s not my business. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“If I didn’t want to say anything, I’d tell you to fuck off,” Alexander muttered, staring at the floor. “And I should probably tell someone the full story anyway.” He laughed slightly and glanced up. “Not healthy to keep it inside and all that, right?”

“No,” Thomas acquiesced, finishing with the tea and crossing to stand beside Alexander. “But that doesn’t mean you have to tell me anything just because I ask.”

“I want someone to know the full story,” Alexander said. “Just… don’t interrupt, okay?”

“Okay.”

Alexander took a breath, and started from the beginning.

He talked about his time in the Caribbean, the hurricane, and discovering he had a tail. He talked about the lies he’d come up with to avoid getting near any body of water where he could possibly be submerged, and his decision to trust Laurens. Between shaking breaths, he rushed through most of the time he’d spent with Laurens, and Thomas finally learned why Alexander jerked away so hard any time Thomas grabbed his wrist. He filled in the random bits and pieces from the time after he’d showed up on Thomas's doorstep, up until the night he had come back, bloody and bruised, from the bar.

“And, uh… yeah,” Alexander said quietly. “You know the rest.”

Thomas took a moment to let everything settle, and then said the first thing that crossed his mind.

“You’re not a coward.”

Alexander stared at him. “What?”

“Last night, Laurens said that you were, and you agreed with him.”

“Because it’s true,” Alexander muttered, turning away. “I couldn’t even break up with him face to face.”

“That’s not cowardice, Alexander.” Thomas leaned on his elbows, resting his chin in his hands. “That’s fear.”

“Yeah, well…” Alexander shrugged and shook his head. “I shouldn’t have been afraid of him.”

Thomas wanted to shake him, desperately wanted to make him understand that Laurens had manipulated him. Alexander was so smart when it came to almost everything else; why couldn’t he just get this?

“That relationship was abusive, Alexander, whether you realized it or not,” he said quietly. “That doesn’t mean—”

“He didn’t hit me or anything,” Alexander protested, waving his hand in the air as his eyebrows furrowed. “He just… he asked to see my tail, and I said yes.”

“And he hurt you,” Thomas said, leaning over into Alexander’s line of vision. “He did it without regard to the pain it caused you. That’s still abuse.”

“So what if it is?” Alexander let his hand fall onto the counter. “I can fight literally anyone else. Hell, I do it for my job! Why couldn’t I just tell him I didn’t want to do it anymore?”

“Because you love him,” Thomas said. “And we don’t like to say no to the people we love.”

“Loved.”

Alexander’s response was so quiet that Thomas wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. When he glanced over, Alexander was picking at the cuts on his palms.

“I don’t know if I love him anymore,” he whispered. “There are a lot of things he did that… that I don’t think I can forgive.”

Tiny print from the folklore book flashed across Thomas's mind, the part about memory loss and the sexual abuse he had read aloud before glancing up to see Alexander staring blankly at the crude diagram on the opposite page. He assumed that it had been his joke that had gone too far, but...

“The book,” Thomas said after a moment. “Was that what happened to you? The memory loss? And the…” He swallowed the discomfort in his throat. “The rape?”

“No.” Alexander shook his head hard, twisting the hair tie around his wrist again. “No. But I don’t… if I had forgotten, I think. I think it could have been.”

He spoke slowly, carefully, as if he was thinking as he spoke, but there was a definitive edge to the words, and Thomas knew that Alexander had put a great deal of thought toward his answer far before the question had even been asked.

Thomas left it at that, though. He didn’t want to ask what exactly Laurens had done. Alexander had obviously left out some details about how vulnerable and trusting he had been with Laurens, and Thomas wasn’t about to push him for an explanation that he hadn’t given willingly.

He could guess, though. The way Alexander had flinched when Thomas had grabbed his wrist during their fight, the way he paused before saying that his relationship with Laurens was “complicated,” the fact that he had offered to transform for Thomas whenever he wanted. There was something there.

But he wasn’t going to ask.

So he leaned against the breakfast bar and sipped his tea and let the early-morning silence exist.

“So…” Alexander set his mug carefully on the counter and wrapped his palms around the sides. “What did that kiss mean? Like… you want to be with me? Together, exclusive, together?”

Thomas pushed himself off the counter and stretched his arms above his head. “If you want to be.”

“You’re the one who kissed me!” Thomas watched the tips of Alexander’s ears turn pink. “You should know the answer to that question.”

“Well you’re the one who confessed, darlin’,” Thomas countered. “If we’re going by who did what, then you should be able to answer it as well.”

“It wasn’t exactly a confession.” Alexander mumbled. “I said something, you contradicted me, and then you kissed me.”

“That seems pretty clear to me,” Thomas said, leaning back against the counter. “Honestly, you’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

“No, I’m not!” Alexander exclaimed. He tapped his fingers against the side of his mug, keeping his eyes on the glass instead of meeting Thomas's gaze. “I just need a straight answer. I can’t do the guessing games and try to figure it out by myself.”

Oh.

“So that’s why you were asking last night, about what we were,” Thomas murmured. Alexander remained silent, but Thomas could tell that he had hit the mark by the way Alexander’s fingers slowed their tapping on the glass.

Thomas had never had trouble with implied things in his romantic relationships in the past. They just kind of shifted from casual dates to a serious relationship at some point, and he went along with it. It was comfortable, simple, and, in his opinion, easily understood. Nothing was ever really explicitly talked about; it just kind of happened.

He had assumed that Alexander was the same way.

“Okay,” Thomas said. “Then yes. Together, exclusive, together, if you want to be.”

“Okay,” Alexander breathed. “That… yeah. Okay.”

Alexander fell silent again. His fingers resumed their tapping on the mug.

“But are you sure you’re not just doing this because…” Alexander reached over to brush his fingers over Thomas's collarbone, over the puncture marks from his own fangs. “Because of this?”

Thomas grabbed Alexander’s hand before he could pull it away. “I have never felt obligated to do anything because of you in my entire life,” he said, and Alexander cracked a smile. “I’m not about to start now.”

“I just want to make sure that you didn’t just kiss me because I marked you,” Alexander muttered.

“No,” Thomas said firmly, even as the corners of his lips turned up. “I’m not into that.”

Alexander grinned slightly and pulled his hand from Thomas's grasp. His face was less pale than it had been last night. “Fuck off.”

“Yeah, sure,” Thomas smirked. “But I’m serious though. I wouldn’t do that if I didn't actually care.”

“Okay.” Alexander downed the rest of his tea. “I don’t know how your past relationships have worked with communication and whatever, but I need straight answers.”

“That seems about right,” Thomas smirked. “We’ve never done subtle and implicit very well anyway.”

They fell into silence once more, but this time it was comfortable, without the awkwardness of the unspoken hanging in their air between them.

Thomas knocked back the last of his tea, long cold. “Do you want to go home?”

“Yeah.” Alexander heaved himself away from the breakfast bar. “I don’t want to be around when everyone else gets up.”

Thomas moved to his side without asking, curling his arm carefully around Alexander’s waist. If Alexander wasn’t going to admit that he needed help, support, whatever, Thomas was just going to have to give it before Alexander’s collapsing made him ask.

He drove them home in silence, keeping some part of his body in contact with Alexander’s—a hand on his knee, an arm across his lower back, fingers intertwined—until they walked up the stairs onto his porch.

“I have a heating pad in my closet if you want it,” Thomas offered, closing the door softly behind them.

“Yeah.” Alexander kicked his shoes off at the wall behind the door. “And can you get my comb? My hair is kind of a mess.”

Thomas hadn’t been in Alexander’s room since the morning after he’d seen the tail for the first time. The bed was unmade, its blankets twisted and hanging off the edges as if Alexander had literally rolled out of it and left it that way.

Figured.

Thomas shook his head and turned to the nightstand.

The ibuprofen was still there, and he picked it up along with the comb. If Alexander had needed it after his transformation with Thomas, which he had said was a six on the scale, he’d definitely want it now.

Alexander was sitting in the living room when Thomas returned, curled up on the couch.

“He shoved me,” Alexander whispered. “He shoved me into the fucking pool and I didn’t even get to choose to transform.”

Thomas sat down gingerly on the edge of the couch. He stayed silent.

“I was so tired of being in pain every day,” Alexander whispered. “I was taking ibuprofen every couple hours, I could barely function half the time, and I basically stopped eating because I never felt well enough to stomach anything, and then I finally left. It was done and out of my life and now he shoved me into the pool and I’m back where I started and… fuck, I—”

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, roughly wiping the tears away. “I just want it to end,” he whispered. “I don’t want to deal with this anymore.”

“You don’t have to.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully, and then, “I’ll never make you do it again.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that it happened.”

“I know.” Thomas glanced around for something to change the subject. “Take these,” he said, holding out the ibuprofen and the comb. “I’ll get you some water.”

Alexander scooped the bottle from Thomas's hand, curling his fingers around it as he leaned back into the couch. “They won’t help,” he whispered. “These don’t work anymore. I probably took too much before, since I was taking it every day.”

“At least try it,” Thomas murmured. “That’s... probably not what you want to hear, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” Alexander pressed himself further into the corner of the couch, shaking his head. “You’re just trying to help.”

Thomas stared at the side of Alexander’s face before he sighed and pushed himself off the couch. “I’ll be right back, darlin’.”

“That threw me off the first time you said it,” Alexander muttered, and Thomas paused. “I never really thought about it because it’s a southern thing, and you only ever used it when you were trying to piss me off when we argued, but then you started saying it differently.”

Thomas felt his lips quirk up. He had knowingly used the endearment to annoy Alexander when they argued, putting just enough of his smug accent into it while he watched Alexander’s expression shift from contained irritation to fuming annoyance. “Yeah? How so?”

Alexander poked at the cap of the bottle, staring intently at the bright orange instead of meeting Thomas's eyes. “You started saying it like you cared.”

“I do care.”

“I know. You said it before.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t say it again.” Thomas smirked. “Darlin’.”

“Whatever.” Alexander turned toward the bookcases against the wall, but Thomas could still see the smile creeping across his face. “Can I have some water?”

“Of course.” Thomas stared at Alexander for a second more before he retreated into the kitchen to fill a glass. He set it aside before he dropped his head against the cabinets.

Alexander shouldn’t have to deal with this. If Thomas hadn’t been so stupidly jealous and left him alone to talk with Laurens, none of this would have happened. In all honesty, Thomas would probably have been the one who ended up in the pool, either because he would have stepped in the way when Laurens tried to push Alexander, or because he would have started a fight with Laurens on his own.

He didn’t think he was all that good at comforting people, so this whole situation with Alexander was foreign to him, especially when he considered the fact that it was in the context of a relationship. It also didn’t help that nothing he said seemed to be useful to Alexander, either.

Thomas rested his elbows on the counter and rubbed a hand over his neck, wincing as he brushed against the stinging punctures on his collarbone. They’d scabbed over slightly, enough that they itched but not enough that they were painless to touch, and Thomas tore his fingers away before he could tear carelessly at the new skin.

Alexander was still curled into the corner of the couch when Thomas finally walked back into the living room, balancing three tiny orange pills on one extended finger. They wobbled slightly when he exhaled, precariously close to becoming unbalanced.

“Don’t think about it,” Thomas murmured, setting the glass down on the table. Alexander startled and the pills dropped into his lap. “Just take them.”

Alexander scooped the pills slowly off the couch, glancing at the glass of water on the side table as he cradled the medicine in his hand. “I hate them.” He picked the glass up off the table anyway and swallowed a mouthful along with the pills.

Thomas sat down on the couch. “Do you want me to fix your hair?”

Alexander scooted himself closer in lieu of an answer, and Thomas began untangling the knots with his fingers until it was smooth enough for the comb to actually be useful. He did another braid, and twisted a hair tie around the ends right as Alexander started fidgeting in his lap.

“I can’t sit still,” Alexander mumbled. He pressed his fingers into his thighs and grimaced. “It hurts so much and I just need to move.”

“Okay.” Thomas shifted, awkwardly removing his lanky legs from around Alexander’s hips and pulling his arm from across his shoulders. “Do you want me to help?”

“No.” Alexander tested his weight on his legs before he pushed himself off the couch. Thomas could see his jaw clench when he finally stood up straight. “I mean, you can if you want, but I’m just gonna pace or something.”

Thomas switched between Instagram and a few news articles, letting the creaking of the floorboards fade into the background as Alexander presumably paced through the hallway and back again. He refreshed the news articles to find new titles to scroll through, but eventually decided that none of them caught his interest. Instagram videos were too long, Twitter had nothing new, and it was back to the news articles, which failed to catch his interest yet again.

Thomas had just opened his email—for what purpose, he didn’t know, considering he had already answered all the emails that he could without having complete case files in front of him—when Alexander’s full weight landed on the couch and then against his shoulder. Thomas froze for a second before he dropped his phone and shifted so that Alexander was curled into his side and his arm was wrapped gently around Alexander's back.

“Hurts,” Alexander whimpered, his voice muffled in Thomas's shoulder. “I don’t know why it’s so bad today.”

Thomas pursed his lips and stretched to place his phone on the end table before he leaned into Alexander and wrapped his other arm around his shoulders.

“I just want it to go away.”

“I know,” Thomas whispered. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Alex’s shoulder, wanting desperately to sooth the trembling that ran through Alexander’s entire body. “I know.”

. . .

Thomas woke with the sun the following morning. Alexander had fallen into a fitful sleep beside him on the couch the night before, and Thomas had managed to carry him to his room without any issues. He’d made sure to close the curtains, too, so hopefully Alexander would get the rest he so obviously needed.

He’d refrained from brewing coffee because the smell would have undoubtedly dragged Alexander out of bed, and he’d slipped into the living room to enjoy the peaceful silence that accompanied early mornings.

The folklore book sat innocuously on the coffee table, its gilded spine flashing mockingly in the morning sunlight. He wasn’t entirely sure why it had ended up on his shelf in the first place. He didn’t read into folklore very often, didn’t tend to place confidence in fairy tales, but maybe it had been the allure of old books with thick pages and scripted text and ink-drawn images and the lasting fantasy of a childhood long past.

He wanted to pick it up, but he didn’t want to know what other tales the book contained that might turn out to be true.

Thomas had read the passage that described the way mermaids used their fangs, and that had been accurate enough. He brushed his fingers over the bite mark on his collarbone and shivered. If one thing in a book that was supposedly mythical folklore had been true, what else might the book be unknowingly accurate about?

The memory loss hadn’t been true, and neither had the rape. Alexander had confirmed that yesterday. Thomas had pondered over the possibility that Alexander had experienced the sexual violence and memory loss that the book described, but Alexander’s reaction to that passage had been more shocked than resigned, like he hadn’t known it was something that could happen.

The way Alexander had reacted when Thomas had pulled him out of the water had been nothing short of pain-induced violence, but it had also been sexual and dominating, and Thomas had the marks to prove it. And Alexander hadn’t seemed to realize that he had bitten Thomas until he saw the wound afterwards. Was there something to that? If the story in the book about mermaids as sexually inclined beings was somehow based in fact, then was Alexander’s carnal reaction at the pool some watered-down version?

Admittedly, he wanted to read the book again. He wanted to find out how much of the so-called folklore was actually true. But he felt guilty reading it without Alexander, like it was some sort of stalking that betrayed the trust they’d carefully developed

But his phone was only more interesting than the book to a point, and he caved after five minutes. He snatched the book off the table and ran his finger along the table of contents before turning to a random page in the “World Myths” section.

_There have been many debates over the possible uses of mermaid scales. Analyzed for DNA, scales said to have come from mermaids have only been matched to common fish species. In some cases, however, no DNA match was found connected to any record of catalogued sea creatures, leading to theories on the existence of mermaids._

_Along the coasts of the United States, scales have been preserved by various collectors, very rarely bought or traded at exorbitant prices. In Europe, the mysterious scales have been used in unique jewelry; pendants for necklaces, charms on earrings, and as both gemstones and bands for elegant rings. In Africa and South America, they are often ground up into magical remedies or medicines and used for practical purposes rather than decorative._

_While the rarity of these scales is undeniable, the validity of their uses is much more clouded. Some legends say the scales are cursed, citing grave and violent accidents after the acquisition of a scale or the purchase of jewelry made from one. Others praise the scales as magical, with winding trails of good luck, amazing fortune, and sweeping romance following scales carefully cared for. The effectiveness of medicines made from the scales vary with results ranging from miraculous cures to no visible changes to disastrous tragedies._

_Stories tell of the potency of the scales themselves and how alterations potentially affect the scales’ power. If the scales were not altered in any way, but kept as they were found, the lore seems to be overwhelmingly positive. When altered (i.e. made into jewelry), the lore turns darker. A few exceptions stand out, however. One collector, while searching for the mysterious scales on the precarious shoals of a beach, was declared missing and eventually was found dead with vicious bite marks marring his neck. Several fortune tellers, however, wearing jewelry made from the glittering scales, have correctly predicted great fortune and dark tragedies for their clients while suffering no misfortune of their own._

_Several common folk have also come forward with their own stories relating to the scales. Some have gone so far as to bury the scales on the nearest beaches after experiencing dark misfortune or simply hearing of the legend while others go to great lengths to take care of the scales while keeping them as their own._

_The following pages contain information on the known scales from those who have come forward._

Thomas scanned the next few pages with little interest. The book was old; he wouldn’t know any of the people in it unless he did extensive research, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The stories about the scales sent chills down his spine, not because there was anything greatly frightening about them, but because he knew now that the consequences might have actually happened.

The floor creaked behind him and he shut the book quickly before shoving it down into the couch cushions beside him as he twisted to greet Alexander.

“Hey,” he murmured, matching Alexander’s smile with his own. “How’re you feeling, darlin’?”

“Better.” Alexander walked around the coffee table and pushed the throw pillows aside to make space for himself beside Thomas. “Drained as hell, but better.”

“That’s good,” Thomas murmured. He pressed his fingers along the spine of the book, shoving it further into the couch cushions as he wrapped his arm around Alexander’s waist. He would hide it later, he resolved, put it somewhere where even he would forget about it.

Neither of them needed to read it anymore.

. . .

Alex swiped out of his email for the fourth time in a row only to click on the text message icon for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past hour. His thumbs danced indecisively over the keyboard as he debated how to reply to Lafayette’s text from earlier in the morning.

 **From Laf**  
**8:32 am**  
Do you want to talk tonight?  
With everyone?

He’d been ignoring the message since the notification had flashed across a thread he’d been reading on Twitter, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite push it from his thoughts completely.

He didn’t remember much from that night between John pushing him into the pool and Thomas catching him when he collapsed, but everyone else surely did. They’d seen it all. They hadn’t done anything, but they’d seen it happen. The wound on Thomas's neck would definitely be a talking point. Thomas in general would be a big talking point.

The only one who he knew for sure was on his side was Herc, but if everyone else actually wanted to hear his side of the story, he’d tell them.

He typed a reply and hit send before he could psych himself out.

 **To Laf**  
**11:36 am**  
Sure

The rest of the day somehow dragged even more than the first three hours of the morning. Alex wished he could be in the office (but then again, when did he not?) so he could have actual work to distract him, but Washington had effectively banned him from the office on the weekends for doing exactly that.

And then it was seven in the evening and Alex wished the time would have passed a little bit slower.

When Laf had said everyone, Alex hadn’t questioned it. Looking back, he probably should have because now he didn’t know if he’d be walking into Laf’s living room only to be greeted by John.

Thankfully, Laf had enough foresight not to push that issue, or at least not yet. Alex felt like he was on trial for murder as he glanced around at the expectant faces of his friends from his place on the edge of the couch, but John, at least, was not in attendance, and he was grateful for that.

“We all know what we saw,” Eliza said. “So let’s not pretend that we were imagining things.”

Alex barely registered the murmured agreement throughout the room.

“And as shocking as it was,” Angelica cut in, “we’re not going to make it weird if you decide to share.”

So he told them as much as he had told Thomas, and as much as he had told John. It was much weirder to talk about it than to actually be showing someone, but Alex would rather drown before he went through that again.

He managed to not look up until he finished, and when he did, he was met with varying silent reactions from his friends. Angelica seemed to be trying to separate his story from some checklist of facts in her head, Laf’s expression flitted between shock and confusion, and Herc looked mildly disgusted. At what, Alex didn’t know.

“You guys say it’s not weird, but then when I talk about it, you look like that,” Alex snapped.

Everyone’s eyes snapped back to him, apologies on their lips, and Alex sighed.

“I’m sorry, I…” He ran a hand through his steadily falling ponytail. “I only showed two people before this,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t have to talk about it much then. So it’s fine, I get it. I was freaked out too, at first. It’s not something you see every day.”

“Why didn’t you come to us, Alex?” Eliza leaned forward into his line of vision, her hands outstretched as if she wanted to reach for Alexander’s.

Herc leaned forward too, much less obviously than Eliza. “Yeah man, you know you’re always welcome to crash at mine.”

They genuinely wanted to know, they genuinely cared and probably felt at least a little hurt that he hadn’t gone to them, but he knew what question was carefully disguised beneath the surface.

_Why did you go to Jefferson?_

“Because you guys would have tried to get me and John back together,” he said. “I know you guys were so happy when we finally started dating. Everyone thought we were perfect for each other. So when it started going bad, I… I figured you would try to fix it instead of letting me leave.” So Thomas had been his only option.

Laf’s lips twisted and he looked away, and Alex could see the sadness in Eliza’s eyes, but they didn’t question him about it, and the conversation quickly shifted to some meaningless topic, for which Alex was grateful. People could say all they wanted about his need for attention, but it was moments like this when he was glad the spotlight was on someone else.

“So, you and Thomas, huh?” Angelica asked quietly, appearing at his shoulder as everyone slowly trickled out of Laf’s apartment a short while later.

“Yeah,” Alex murmured, pausing momentarily in the doorway. “Me and Thomas.”

Angelica sighed. “I meant for you to elaborate.”

“Yeah, I know.” Alex raised his eyebrows and grinned. “I just don’t have anything to say.”

“You always have something to say.”

Alex held the door open for Angelica to slip through. “Sure. There’s just not much to tell about this, though. It’s a new development.”

“Fine,” she assented. “But if you leave me out of the loop again, there will be consequences.”

Alex held back his smirk, but not by much. “I’d expect nothing less.”

They parted ways at the corner, Angelica turning to join her sisters, and Alex crossing the street to continue back to Thomas’s. The rest of the walk back was calming, but Alex was still exhausted by the time he kicked off his shoes and sprawled over the couch as he pulled out his phone.

 **From Laf**  
**8:29 pm**  
Lunch tomorrow at that Italian place over on Broadway?

“Laf invited me out for lunch tomorrow,” Alex said as Thomas entered the living room. “I think he’s trying to make amends.”

Thomas shoved Alex’s feet off the couch and sat down while Alex squawked in indignation. “Maybe he just wants to see you? You haven’t exactly been spending time with them since all of this happened.”

“Nah. I think he wants to apologize for being weird today. I kind of yelled at everyone collectively.”

“Ah.” Thomas stretched his legs out. “That would make sense.”

“But you were weird about it when I told you,” Alex continued, lifting his feet off the floor and making Thomas's thighs his new footrest. “And we hated each other then.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t yell at me for being weird about it,” Thomas said. “Did they apologize for anything?”

“It was kind of a different situation,” Alex muttered. “It was midnight, and you basically forced me to tell you. And no, they didn’t, but they also didn’t know about any of it because I didn’t tell them. So it’s really more my fault than theirs.”

“Mmm.” Thomas motioned to Alex’s phone. “Are you going to answer, or just leave Laf on read?”

Alex entered his passcode and swiped through his texts.

 **To Laf**  
**8:32 pm**  
Yeah, sure

. . .

Maybe amends weren’t what Laf was trying for when he had invited Alex to lunch.

The Frenchman, under the guise of stretching and looking for the waiter, had been glancing toward the door for the past five minutes. Alex had held his tongue, but it was clear that Laf was waiting for someone to show up.

“Are you looking for someone?” Alex asked. Laf’s eyes snapped back to his face. “I didn’t think anyone else was coming today.”

“They aren’t,” Laf said quickly. “I thought that maybe…”

Laf’s eyes flickered away from Alex’s face again, and Alex craned his neck to follow his friend’s gaze. His head didn’t even make it halfway around before he was gazing up at John’s freckle-splattered face, and his heart caught in his throat.

“Why are you here?” Alex whispered. “How… why are you here?”

“Laf invited me.” John scuffed the toes of his Converse against the floor. “He thought we could talk.”

Laf didn’t meet Alex’s eyes when he turned away from John. “This is exactly what I was talking about,” Alex said. “This… this trying to get us back together. It’s been one day, Laf.”

Laf reached across the table. “Alexander, please just listen.”

“No!” If he listened, it would just be sweet words and sugar-coated apologies, and he’d believe them. He’d give in to the gentle smile just like he always had and he’d go back and try again because everyone wanted them to be perfect, and it would end the same way as it had a few months ago.

Or maybe it wouldn’t.

If he went back this time, maybe he would stay.

John rested the tips of his fingers on Alex’s shoulder. “Alex, I—”

Alex shoved his chair back from the table. The legs screeched shrilly in the quiet restaurant, as if every patron had stopped talking to listen to their conversation. “I have to go.”

He slid around John as quickly as he could, kept his hands tucked against his body, and shoved through the door, sending the bell across the top jingling wildly before it slammed shut behind him.

He ended up leaning against the corner of the building at the top of the block and pulled his phone from his pocket with shaking hands.

 **To Virginian Asshole**  
**12:14 pm**  
Where are you

He really should change Thomas's contact name in his phone.

 **From Virginian Asshole**  
**12:15 pm**  
Home  
Why?

Alex pocketed his phone without typing a reply and crossed the first street he came to, hoping desperately that he was still going in the right direction.

The walk back to Thomas's house seemed to take forever, and it didn’t calm him down as he would have hoped. By the time he climbed the steps and shoved his key into the lock, his hands were shaking and his breath sat high in his chest. He barely remembered to pull his key from the lock before he closed the door and pressed his back against it.

“You’re home early,” Thomas said slowly, walking into the entryway with a book in his hands. “I thought you were having lunch with Laf.”

Alex didn’t answer, still trying to catch his breath. Thomas finally looked up then, did a swift once-over of Alexander’s appearance, and took a step forward.

“Alexander?”

He stumbled forward, barely registering the muffled curse that fell from Thomas's lips as he fell into the man’s outstretched arms, and they both collapsed onto the floor. Thomas's fingers immediately centered themselves on Alex’s spine, the book falling to the floor with a dull thud.

“Jesus, darlin’, what happened?”

“Laf invited John,” he gasped, clutching the fabric of Thomas's shirt in his fists. “He wanted us to talk and I don’t want to talk because then I’ll forgive him and go back and everything will be bad again and then John touched my shoulder and—”

“Hey, you’re not going back,” Thomas interrupted. “That’s not going to happen.”

“But what if we do talk and he wants to try again?”

Thomas's hands stilled on his back. “That’s not going to happen,” he repeated. One of his hands slid up to Alex’s neck, the other dug into his spine. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

Alex didn’t know how long they stayed on the floor, Thomas's arms wrapped around him as he sobbed into the man’s shirt, but he was jolted out of a foggy haze when Thomas shifted and moved to stand. Alex grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I’m not leaving, darlin’.” Thomas pressed one knee against the hardwood and pushed Alex’s hair back from his face. “But we should go somewhere more comfortable than the floor.”

Thomas wrapped one arm around his back, curled a hand gently under his knees, and lifted him off the floor.

“I told you you were tiny,” he murmured.

Alex wrapped his arms more securely around Thomas's neck and pressed his nose firmly against his collarbone. “Shut up.”

Thomas maneuvered through the house easily, somehow managing to not slam Alex’s elbows on every doorway they went through, and then Alex was set down on the bed and pulled into Thomas's chest. He drifted off to long fingers combing through his hair and an arm draped protectively across his waist.

Alex expected to wake up alone. Instead, he woke up with Thomas's hand still in his hair, Thomas's arm still draped across his waist, and Thomas's dark eyes staring into his own.

“Hey.”

Alex pushed himself up and carefully extracted himself from Thomas's arms, breaking eye contact with that gorgeous brown. “You’re still here.”

“You asked me not to leave, darlin’.”

Alex pulled his fingers carefully from Thomas's and tangled them in the sheets. “Yeah, I know.”

Thomas moved to wrap his arm around Alex’s lower back, and Alex tensed, leaning away. Thomas retracted his arm and leaned back as well. “What’s wrong?”

“I just…” Alex twisted the sheets in tight fists. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I showed you my fucking tail and that was more of an awkward situation than this. But this…” He gestured vaguely between them. “It’s nothing like that, but I don’t know what it is and I’m just being weird about it.”

“It’s intimate, darlin’,” Thomas murmured. “Not physically, but emotionally, I suppose, having someone see you at your worst and most vulnerable and then having to deal with it when your brain is finally working properly.” He pushed the sheets off his lap and swung his legs onto the floor. “So do you want me to stay or go?”

“Stay.”

Thomas smiled gently. “Of course.”

. . .

Thomas opened another email, this time from Washington. His boss was asking after a case that Thomas was working on with Alexander.

Alexander, who had his head on Thomas's shoulder, perked up and reached for the keyboard. “Let me answer. I have to tell him about the files the hospital sent today.”

Thomas shifted his laptop away as he clicked to reply. “No. And quit reading over my shoulder.”

“Please?”

“I don’t understand the enthusiasm you have for working on the weekends.”

“I’m bored, and work is interesting,” Alexander offered. “Just give me your computer.”

“Washington also sent it to you, you know,” Thomas said. “Get your own laptop. You could probably reply faster than I could, anyway.”

Alexander groaned. “I hate you. I’ll be right back.”

“I hate you too,” Thomas muttered as an afterthought, already drafting his reply to Washington. He could hear Alexander’s laughter fade as he walked toward his bedroom.

Thomas had finished typing his reply to the email just as Alexander’s reply popped into his inbox. He clicked send anyway, and closed the email right as the doorbell rang.

Thomas sighed and set his laptop on the coffee table. Alexander would come back and stretch his legs across the entire couch by the time Thomas returned from talking to whoever was standing on his doorstep.

He twisted the lock and turned the handle, ready to politely decline adding his signature to a petition, and almost did a double take when he came face to face with John Laurens.

“Laurens,” he greeted, leaning casually against the door frame, the same way he did when he was trying to carefully piss Alexander off. “What do you want?”

Thomas wasn’t particularly inclined to extend any sort of courtesy toward Laurens, both due to the incident at Laf’s party and everything that had led up to it as well as what Alexander had told him about the discussion his friends had tried to make him have.

“I came to talk to Alex,” Laurens said. He took a half-step forward. “I want to apologize. For the other night, and for… you know, everything else.”

Thomas didn’t move from the doorway. “No.”

Laurens seemed taken aback by Thomas's definitive answer, but also resigned, as if it was an answer he had been expecting. He sighed and shifted his weight as Thomas stared at him.

“Look, I… Alex’s tail, it was beautiful,” he started. “When he showed me, I thought I was dreaming at first. And then I kind of… I was obsessed. And I didn’t want to ask him to transform at first, because it looked so painful, but when I did, he didn’t say no. So I kept asking.”

Thomas remained silent, and Laurens took a step forward.

“Don’t just stand there and judge me,” he snapped. “You don’t know anything. You don’t get to judge me.”

“It’s my house, Laurens. I think I can do what I want.”

Laurens kicked at the concrete with his scuffed tennis shoes. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“You’re right. You don’t.”

“What would you have done?” Laurens asked. “You two hate each other. If he had shown it to you and you realized just how much power you could have had over him, you would’ve done the—”

“He did show me,” Thomas cut in, watching Laurens’ face as his accusations caught in his throat. “He got into a fight at a fucking bar two weeks after he showed up at my door with no explanation, and when he finally explained why he wouldn’t let me draw him a bath, I didn’t want to believe it either. He didn’t actually show me until two weeks after that.”

Laurens was staring at him, disbelief etching itself deeper across his face with every word Thomas spoke.

“I wondered if he had shown you at all,” Thomas continued. “I wondered why he was showing me instead of you, or Mulligan, or Laf. But I figured it wasn’t my place to ask. And I thought it was beautiful too, at first,” he added. “I couldn’t believe that I had an actual mermaid sitting in my bathroom.”

He figured that was what Laurens had been trying to get at, what he had been trying to make Thomas relate to. And yeah, maybe he might have been able to relate, when he had first seen Alexander’s tail, but now that he knew what came with it, he didn’t want to.

“And I know we argue all the time, but it was horrific, watching him go through that much pain. I would never dream of putting him through that for my own ends. I never wanted to see it a second time,” Thomas said. “I swore that I would never ask him to show me again. And I didn’t.”

Thomas pushed himself off the door frame and stepped closer to Laurens. “He actually offered to transform for me a couple times a day, after you shoved him into the fucking pool. I told him it was beautiful, and he said he had done it for you before. And I guess he figured that I would be the same way as you had been, wanting him to transform constantly for my own enjoyment.”

Thomas paused. “I told him no,” he said slowly, watching Laurens’ face with every word. “You didn’t let him say no. That’s what makes us different.”

He stepped back from the doorway and closed the door in Laurens’ stunned face.

And when he turned around, he was met with an identical expression across Alexander’s.

So he’d heard at least part of the conversation, if not all of it. Just how much, Thomas would probably find out in a second.

Had Thomas thought about what he’d said before it had come out of his mouth? Kind of. Was he glad that he’d finally gotten to spit it in Laurens’ face? Absolutely. Did he regret saying any of it? Not in the slightest. But it still wasn’t his experience to talk about. If he had shared more than Alexander was comfortable with him sharing, he’d just have to deal with the consequences.

“I don’t know why he came here,” Thomas said coolly. If Alexander was mad at him, he was going to deflect that outburst for as long as possible. “He already hates me, so I don’t see why he thought he would get anywhere by coming to my house.”

“Did you mean it?”

Thomas paused. “Did I mean what?”

“That you never… that you didn’t… that…” Alexander took a breath and stared at the floor. “All of it, really.”

“Of course,” Thomas replied easily. “I said it to you, didn’t I? I’m not about to lie to Laurens.”

Alexander’s gaze flicked up to meet his own. “Did you really swear that you’d never ask again?”

Thomas swallowed. “Yes.”

“When?”

“Before you even showed it to me the first time,” Thomas whispered.

“Oh.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For assuming,” Alexander said quietly. “The first time, when I ignored you afterwards. I assumed you’d want to see it again, and I didn’t want to end up in another situation like I had with John.”

“That’s fair,” Thomas reasoned. “You can only base your assumptions on what you already know.”

“Yeah, but you’re different,” Alexander murmured. “I realized that before the first time, too.”

. . .

Thomas woke long after the sun had scattered patterns across the floor of his room and the birds had ended their songs from various perches outside his window. The house was quiet, unusually so, but Thomas wasn’t about to complain. He actually used his time off, unlike Alexander, and he’d take a quiet moment whenever he could get it. After all, he had to deal with Alexander both at work and at home.

Thomas snatched a pair of sweatpants off the floor that looked like his, but once he slipped them on, they seemed a little too tight. They were Laf’s, he realized. The length was right, but they didn’t quite fit his broad hips. The tips of his fingers brushed against something small as he shoved his hand into the pocket, and he fished it out, pressing it firmly between his forefinger and thumb.

It was the scale from the night at Laf’s house, shimmering brilliantly green even in the dim light of his bedroom. He twisted it absently, watching the shimmer run across the surface in waves. Alexander had asked him to keep it. Thomas didn’t know if keeping it had meant just for that night or for forever, but it didn’t feel right to just throw it away. He definitely wasn’t going to ask Alexander about it. If it came down to it, he wasn’t going to be the one to bring that night up. But he hated looking at it. Even though it was beautiful, it held too many bad memories.

Thomas flipped the scale between his fingers. He had never thought that anything written as folklore would ever be true, but looking back on the past few months threw everything he thought he knew out the window. If someone had told him three months ago that he’d be dating Alexander Hamilton, partial mermaid, he’d have offered to pay for their therapy bill. Because as much as he loved reading folklore, he had seen it happen. He understood the stories, understood how most of them were warnings of how the most beautiful things could be cursed. But that was only if they were misused.

He’d keep it. He wouldn’t do anything with it—no selling, no witchcraft, no jewelry. But he would keep it.

It was pretty, yes, but Thomas wasn’t in it for the pretty. He wasn’t about to choose _pretty_ and make it into an obsession when he knew that what came with it was nowhere near pretty.

He was choosing Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things now that we're done:  
> -This was the first Jamilton thing that I wrote, even though I published Vodka and Vanilla first.  
> -Fun fact I wrote a lot of this at stupidly early hours almost two years ago to motivate myself to get up for school on time.  
> -I did not outline this, so the reason it took so long to get this last part done was because I didn't have an until a week ago.  
> -I have no idea what to do with myself now that this is done, so until I make myself write another long-ass Jamilton thing, Missing You will be occupying my time. Also one shots.  
> -Whether you're reading this the day I post or cramming it in its entirety five months later, thank you!  
> -Come yell at me on tumblr (writingfortherevolution) about this or prompts or literally anything.


End file.
